


Empty Room

by fuchsiagrasshopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Humor, Bromance, Case Fic, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Language, Mind Palace, Mystery, Past Drug Use, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Slomance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 106,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1381180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuchsiagrasshopper/pseuds/fuchsiagrasshopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knew the value in the lesson of falling down: to pick yourself back up and continue on. But falling to his 'death' only to come back two years later was proving to be a challenge. John was bothered, he was bored, and the new cases were piling up. He soon learns that the world is a much smaller place, but is there room for her in it? Post-Reichenbach AU Eventual Sherlock/OC<br/>Originated on FF.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steady As He Goes

"This way please, Miss." The middle-aged gentleman escorted her through the doors, and she'd already had enough of him since he'd barged into her office earlier in the day, talking all rules and regulations about how to proceed with one of their dead girls from the club. With what bizarre things had been reported recently, it didn't come as a surprise to her. The nasty details of the last few weeks' grisly murders had been available on every paper, internet column and news channel that was accessible to public eye. A dirty business. All the victims were working girls, or at least the unsavory type who chose to make a living out of selling sin. The third target was one of theirs, and she hadn't the decency to even appear shocked. Poor, unfortunate Taylor. She'd been one of the nicer ones too.

The DI kept tossing her a look, the kind that said he expected her to transform into a wailing mess any minute now. Not gonna happen. It probably had something to do with the twitchy vibe she was throwing off. She was quite a sight for the man no doubt, unexpected in his adapted territory, whatever that was. She didn't focus on that though, because she was being blinded. The florescent lights on the white tiled ceiling seemed endless, leading her down a tunnel to a predestined location. God she hated hospitals, or more to the point, the morgue. Why the hell did they have to use that obnoxious scent of cleaner on the floors? The acid lemon was burning her eyes, and creeping into her nose like an uppercut to her senses. She pulled at her hideous fleece jumper (the last thing she had grabbed off of her chair before leaving) hiking it up over her mouth and nose to spare her from the stench. Now she was breathing in the fabric softener she had picked up last week on bargain at Tesco, and with the combined smell of the putrid lemon, she came close to choking. Goddamn hospitals. She tried to actively avoid them, but no one else had been present at work so early in the day to identify the body.

"Are you alright?" A warm hand landed on her shoulder, and she nearly pulled a snarl. The DI—Lestrade she remembered his name to be—wasn't able to make out her put-off look only because she was still shielding half of her face with her ridiculous jumper.

"Fine." She offered curtly before shaking him off. Even if she hadn't responded to being 'fine', why did people have to get handsy? She liked her comfort in the form of a distant head nod, reassuring and to the point.

She waited for him to go in through the double doors. No reason to delay it anymore, and besides, she had to get back in an hour before opening, or the whole club would fall apart without her. Lucky for her, good man Lestrade didn't seem to be patient with her any longer as he pushed through the barricade, barely holding the door opened for her to slip through before relinquishing his hold on the handle. Well fuck you very much sir.

She contained her hesitation as soon as her feet landed inside the vicinity of the morgue. Here came the part she hated. Just being inside of that place, the walls were already closing in, while her legs were doing that thing where they jiggled and bent like grass blades, just waiting for her arse to hit the nice linoleum. She wasn't going to do that though, not with four other people in the room. Well three. Poor Taylor didn't count.

By her own force she made it over to the slab of metal, acting as a bed for the unfortunate woman in a body bag. It would be the last resting place she'd see before a cheap coffin in a grave. The girl didn't have family, at least none that kept tabs on her, so who else was going to look after her? Putting that morose thought aside, she landed stuck between the DI and the other woman officer who looked like a bit uppity, walking around with a stick up her you-know-what while smelling like a man's deodorant like no one's business. She was offering up some sympathetic looks to her for the dead girl before them, but they went unheeded. The tiny Pathologist got down to unzipping the bag from an ordered whisper from Lestrade. The name sounded like Molly, and was confirmed by the name tag on her sanity white jacket.

After the final tooth on the zipper had been unlocked, the bag was pulled back to the cadaver's chest. Poor Taylor. There was no mistaking her for anyone else. Blue didn't look good on her, but it was where her complexion was set. Darker bands of black and purple were worn around her neck like a choker, and there was a registered look of surprise on her twisted, little face as lidless as it was. Two hollowed out caves were in her skull where eyeballs should have been, a pair of dazzling blues like the Adriatic that made men squirm in delight. Out of decency, the doctor had taken care to put sterile gauze over the exposed sockets, but she could venture a guess on what it looked like underneath there. The papers were vague on details to keep decent for the public, but Taylor had joined the growing list of victims to this new brand of serial killer. There was a maniac out there, looking for women's blood along with ripping out their eyes for sport. Lovely.

Getting back to her observing, she noted the condition of Taylor's most prized possession. Her wavy, auburn hair was all over the place, ruined from a night of primping before work. It wasn't actually maintained in the greatest way of course. The colour came from a box, and a thick strip of dark roots was already showing after neglect. She used too much hairspray and not enough conditioner. It had been coifed in the familiar way with too much backcombing for big volume, sacrificing the silky feel for dry dead ends. Hideously scandalous, another thing that drove men mad.

"That's her." She said, her voice raspy. She hated when it did that because it bought her more concerned glances from the three people standing around her and the corpse of her employee.

"Would you like a moment alone with her?" It was the petite doctor who asked her. The juxtaposition between her and her job, was comical. She was pretty, maintained clean and proper unlike the girls at the club, though there was a skittish quality to her beneath that lab coat that suggested she did better around corpses than real people and thus was her reason for being there. To each his own.

"No…I mean I just…no thank you." Great, she was sputtering now. She needed out of this place, "Can I go now?" She turned back to Lestrade.

He didn't contain his shock very well, not when his eyebrows reached staggering heights on his forehead, almost completely touching his nutmeg colored hairline. It was greying, likely a potent combination from stress of his job and home life. He was a decent enough fellow though, so who was she to judge? "Yes, I suppose we don't need you for anything else here tonight. We will be in touch however."

Just as quick as he was to pass off his number, instinctively she reached into the back pocket of her black jeans, producing a small slip of a business card with her name and number for work, "Call when you have something."

He barely caught the card in his hand before she was retracting her own, swiftly turning to get to the door. They were probably watching and judging her odd behavior, but she didn't care. Let them watch. Hitting the door with the heel of her hand, she busted through them and was out in the hallway again. Her pace had quickened into a short jog, and more than one of the officers from Scotland Yard were watching her with bemusement and humor. They didn't dare laugh in a hospital, not before the doors of a morgue where the new victim laid along with the other toe-tagged stiffs. It didn't mean they fought the small grins at her behavior, running down the corridor like a lunatic, but dammit, she needed air. The cold, musty kind that only London could provide for her lungs.

She had memorized her way back out of that maze, feeling liberated as the automatic doors pulled apart, letting her slip out into the evening streets. She had been transported over there by police car, so it looked like she'd be hailing a cab back to work. The evening colours were already beginning in the sky as she walked along the pavement of St. Bart's. Work wasn't an inconveniently long distance from here, but her ability to catch the attention of a cab was less than stellar. Three passed by her before one finally pulled to a stop at the curb.

"Thank you." She uttered, her mood soured by the evenings events.

' _No one better be a thick-head tonight at work'_ , she thought wryly,  _'I'm in a mood.'_

After she directed the cabbie where to go, she did her best to relax. The seats were stiff and smelt of mildew and smoke, so it wasn't like being charioted away in a limousine, but she could deal with it. She pulled her mobile out from her fleece, checking over messages and her schedule. Same old, same old. People from work texting her, missed phone call from her boss, and work was bound to be the same, except that she had a real crummy night ahead of her when she'd have to explain that one of their girls had been murdered. Everything else that came with it was business as usual at a nightclub; life in the fast lane.

It was times like these she favored the backseat of the cab because she didn't have to drive or talk. Absentmindedly she watched the driver. A frail specimen, appearing older than he probably was thanks to a receding hairline and a saggy face drawn in from his mouth. She played around with the idea that he resembled a Basset hound, with droopy features around his eyes, and jowls around is mouth. She didn't take the cabs too often, but when she did, it felt good to be out mixing in the public. She actually preferred a ride on a red double-decker over a cab, but tonight she didn't have time to wait. Not that she did a lot of mixing with crowds; she was usually just background noise.

She brushed away an imaginary thread from her dark jeans, her booted foot tapping idly as she started to recognize the buildings they drove past through the window. Her place of work resided up ahead as she read over the familiar title of the club. She paid the cabbie her fare with a polite word before stepping out into the late autumn air. It smelt like rising yeast and cinnamon because of the bakers just a short walk down the lane. Cute place, she sometimes stopped in for a roll or tart when her sweet tooth was giving her a hard time. Her mind became filled with other things though as she passed through the threshold of the door to her work. The liquor was strong tonight, promising for a packed house. She waved a short hello to a co-worker setting up for the night, waiting for their chav clientele to arrive just to become completely legless over a night of drinking. She went back to her office, shrugging out of her jumper as she collapsed in her chair behind the desk. Despite the fact that she was in a lousy mood, she was home.

* * *

John stared down at his penny loafers somewhat despairingly. Lord, is this all he could afford to buy these days? What had he been thinking? The clerk had been so sure they were suited to him. She had been all dazzling smiles and flirtatious eyes around him and that's how it had happened. Bloody woman had gotten her sale and he got landed with a cheap brown pair of things that could go on his feet with no promise of a date.

Maybe it wasn't only the shoes bothering him. No, in fact he was certain it wasn't. His one obnoxious, ignorant, insufferable problem was seated directly beside him in the moving cab. Two years. Sherlock had popped back out of the blue, back to 221B Baker Street and back into his uninspiring life. Never mind the fact that he was convinced his mate had fallen to his death from the roof of the hospital they were now traveling to. John had stuck himself back into therapy for that, not to mention Sherlock had eavesdropped on his goodbye at the gravesite after the funeral. He had yet to apologize for that. It was hopeless to wait, but a small part of him was naïvely anticipating an 'I'm sorry' from his consulting detective. He suspected Sherlock knew this too. How could he not, he only saw everything and then some with just one glance at a person.

Things had, for the most part, carried on in the last two months like nothing had changed. Except everything had, at least for John's part of it. At first at the start of his return, Sherlock had tried to force himself into polite gestures that John assumed was his attempt at apology. He'd attempted to keep the odds thing he brought home for the fridge down to a minimum and he'd even stolen his laptop less than usual. Sherlock was a creature of habit though, and any polite traits he'd tried to impose for John's sake had quickly vanished in the span of a week. Baker Street fell back into its mess caused by his eccentric flatmate, Mrs. Hudson continued to stress she was their landlady and not their housekeeper, and John remained observantly quiet. If he saw half as much as Sherlock, maybe he'd have more progress. Too bad the world only had room for one consulting detective.

The cases had continued, and John hadn't even needed persuading to join in again. He despised that part of him for being so weak, allowing for Sherlock to walk over him, but the thrill was just another part he had missed along with the man himself. Sure, he'd thrown a punch and had given him a fat lip to deal with for the first few days upon his return, but that reaction was expected. Sherlock hadn't even complained or threw up a fuss about it. How could he have not missed this life? It promised only hurt with zero chance of stability, but when he had thought Sherlock for dead for two years, he hadn't moved on. So here they were, in the back of a cab with the only noise being made was the boot of the car rattling when they'd hit an odd end of street. John released a sigh as he once again caught a glance at his shoes from the light of a passing street lamp. What a sorry state of dress he was in, but one word from Sherlock about Lestrade and case, and he was sprinting after him through the door without much care to his appearance.

"Honestly John, the whole of Scotland Yard doesn't care how you are dressed. I should hope you will cease with that noise at the morgue."

And, there it was. Having a bad day, you could always count on Sherlock with a rude word of reassurance, "Maybe if I had been given a minute of time, I would have picked something other than these… these things!" He kicked his short legs up and pointed at his shoes with having lack of a better word to describe the things on his feet.

"Then take them off." Was Sherlock's simple reply.

"What, and walk around in my argyles?" He exclaimed.

"John, you're being dull again."

The stopping of the cab signaled the end of their conversation, and John hadn't even gotten the last word in, like always. Sherlock was already hitting the pavement, leaving John to pay the fare. It was amazing how these annoying habits had returned so swiftly, but he merely grumbled under his breath while throwing some money to the cabbie before venturing out after his friend. The night was cold and he pulled his coat just a little tighter around his neck as his short strides strove to catch up to Sherlock's longer gait. John faltered a bit, like he always did recently when his eyes would accidentally trail up to the roof of the building. Nasty reminders of things he'd rather forget. It always managed to take his breath away, and that same hopeless feeling would squeeze at his heart. Sherlock was alive and well though, but that didn't mean the last three years hadn't happened for John, and they served as reminder of what would happen if Sherlock truly did die. No one could fake their own death twice, and that thought lingered as he entered St. Bart's.

It was a steady night, the hallway lined with officers from the Yard. Most recognized him at this point, which meant they didn't want to associate with him having been known to be the partner of the consulting detective nearly everyone detested. John thought bitterly that maybe if they were better at their jobs, they wouldn't see Sherlock as the 'Freak'. What an awful thing to be called, yet Sherlock never seemed to pay any heed to such remarks. John knew he heard them though, but he never made any indication about how he felt about the name-calling. To her credit, Sally Donavan had refrained from doing so as often since Sherlock's awakening from the grave. Maybe she understood the value of him a bit better now, or maybe John was just optimistic for his friend's sake.

He finally arrived at the doors of the morgue, Sherlock and the others already inside as he pushed through the entrance. Another familiar sight. Lestrade and Molly hovering while Sherlock took care of examining the body, all three wearing latex gloves. He didn't have to look up from his work to know John was the present company, and he spoke to him without ever turning his direction, "What kept you?"

"I—" John grasped for an explanation when he realized he had none.

"Don't be slow John, get over here, I could use your opinion."

Unlikely, as he always had everything deduced before John could even speak, but he obliged anyway. Lestrade gave him a brief nod while Molly smiled shyly and handed him his own pair of gloves to don. For the first few weeks John had felt some bitter resentment towards the pathologist. Sherlock had trusted her with his secret for three years while he had been left to mourn. It hadn't seemed fair. He half expected Molly to have told him at some point, and he also was jealous of her for having never learned the loss he had experienced. The feeling had faded now as he understood Molly fell into a different branch of friend for Sherlock. She was important in a quiet way, one that Moriarty hadn't seen and thus left her unthreatened. That probably hurt her in some way, and her relationship with Sherlock hadn't shifted any either from what John had played witness to.

He joined the rest of the party around the metal table, sucking in a harsh breath as he noticed the state of the corpse. Another young woman, taken from life rather cruelly. It was only the third murder, but something had been done in the same fashion as the other two and that was enough to confirm a serial killer, prompting Sherlock's excitement to agree to investigate. It was a level seven he had said, which John didn't understand, but he'd given up on that rating system a long time ago. He could only see the bandage over her eye sockets and the strangulation marks over her neck, and he wondered what else Sherlock was able to pull from that. A great deal it always seemed, "Horrible." He uttered with a head-shake.

"Yes, tragic." Sherlock reiterated, though he didn't sound the least bit sincere, "But what else?"

John hated being asked that question. Sherlock already knew all the answers, so why continue to make the rest of them feel stupid when he could easily explain everything? "It's the same as the other two girls that were found. Their eyes have been taken."

"They weren't murdered under the same context. She was asphyxiated. Large handprints, obviously male. There are no signs that she struggled and fought back, so she was already unconscious when he decided to kill her. She was put under from a chemical substance most likely, as she has no injuries suggesting to a physical blow to the head. And as John's observation skills pointed out so saliently, like the other two girls, both eyes have been forcibly taken post-mortem."

"The first two girls received stab wounds." Lestrade said with question in his voice, "It could be two different killers."

"Don't be stupid." Sherlock said, slightly disgusted at the suggestion. It wasn't as if things had been left any easier for Lestrade. He'd gone through a hard time at work because of his connection with Sherlock, even losing his position as DI for a while until the Yard thought it was right to promote him once again. John knew Sherlock didn't take these things into consideration when he spoke like that, but Lestrade was another one to have grown a thick skin around Sherlock's discourteous comments.

"Everything he has done is deliberate." Sherlock continued with underlying annoyance in his voice, "His pattern is taking a token, their eyes, but to what purpose does he need them for?" They cleared room as he started to pace, his mind falling into deep thought, all synapses firing while listing off possibilities quicker than John could blink. What it was to be Sherlock Holmes.

"There was no record of a mother, but we've been trying to track down her father. His last known living address was listed in Liverpool." Lestrade remarked.

It didn't appear as though Sherlock was listening, or the bit of information Lestrade had given was of no interest because he had already figured that much out. Something else was able to draw his attention back to the present, and of course it was Anderson bumbling through the door with Donavan in tow. They didn't get very far before Sherlock noticed them with an agitated expression, "No! My concentration suffers greatly if your face is present." He pointed directly at the man with the incredulous look on his face.

Anderson looked ready to argue, but Lestrade waved him off, signally for Sally to take him out of the room so they could finish up without hassle, and maybe a little more respect from Sherlock. Doubtful, but the two headed back out, sharing little mutterings about the consulting detective no doubt. John frowned again as he pondered over something, turning to the Detective Inspector curiously, "Who identified the body then if not a relative? A boyfriend?"

Lestrade answered negatively with a head shake, "Someone from her work left their card. It might be a good lead."

He handed the slip of paper over to John, who read over the simple print. All it gave was a name, a location and the place of business with a listed number.  **"Vicarious"** was the place, and under it in smaller print read  **Avery Nash**. "A night club?" John remarked, familiar with the name, though had never been.

The card was swiped from his hand viciously as Sherlock looked over it, "Look at her hair John, she didn't work for Solicitors as a secretary."

John felt his eyes drift back to the dead girls' hair, and immediately felt shameful for doing so. So maybe she wasn't high class, but it did no good to insult the dead, not when her corpse was but a foot away, "Are we leaving then?" He asked Sherlock impatiently, growing uncomfortable as their time progressed in the morgue.

"In a minute." Sherlock brushed him off.

"What is Avery Nash's job?" John asked Lestrade.

"I believe head of security for Vicarious. Bit of a dodgy place, I was thinking of looking into it further, but if you two want to be the first to go before my people  _contaminate_  it, then be my guest." There was some contempt in the way he said contaminate, mostly likely due to the fact that Sherlock referred to it as that one too many times.

"We are going." Sherlock finally decided snapping off his gloves, and John could only wonder what had convinced him.

Molly made haste to zip the bag closed on the body, her actions jerky as she looked rushed to speak, "I might not be able to get any eyes to you to experiment on, seeing as there's a shortage now." She laughed slightly at her little funny, but everyone else seemed to take note on how dark of humor it was. John winced while Lestrade looked to the floor with his face contorted into a grimace, "Oh, I'm sorry!" She squeaked.

"Molly, this is no time for jokes, especially lousy ones you so wastefully have to apologize for." Sherlock told her sternly without an ounce of hesitation. He was floating towards the door again, his coat billowing behind him as he called over his shoulder, "I expect to have the toxicology report when it is finished, and I will need to see the personal effects she was found in. Come John, no time to dilly-dally."

John huffed as Sherlock already disappeared from the morgue. Lestrade gave him a small smirk as he caught the peeved look on his face, "Remember, we're glad to have him back."

"I'm trying." But even as he said this in a grudging tone, his feet were already following after in Sherlock's direction. His heart was pumping wildly, wistful for the adventure that he desperately craved with Sherlock.

It took him no time to leave St. Bart's, his friend already down at the pavement as the breeze tousled with the unruly patch of dark hair atop his head. He still wore the same brand of coat, the same blue scarf and the same expression on his face that John was always so used to seeing. It was a welcomed sight as he joined at Sherlock's side. Like magic, he was able to hail a cab without hassle and he threw opened the door boisterously, jumping in as John followed in after. Sherlock read the directions to the club off the card, the cabbie looking through his mirror back at them with a quizzical expression, "Vicarious isn't one of those types of clubs."

Sherlock remained blank face, but John quickly scowled, "We're not gay."

"Right, sir." The cabbie said genuinely, "Wouldn't be any trouble if you were. Just a suggestion was all I meant."

Outstanding. Two years later, and people were still mistaking them for a couple. John really needed to find a girl, or maybe a new wardrobe. Something less domestic would maybe put an end to that foolish conclusion from everybody in London. He didn't let it bother him too badly as their cab pulled into traffic, and they set off into the night for new clues about their recent case. John was already thinking up suited titles for the blog once they got on to solving it, but time would tell what they would uncover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, haven't had a chance to have this Brit-picked yet. Hope it's OK.


	2. Weapon of Mass Deduction

It was the most inopportune time to come up with a case of the fidgets. Not that he would look any different on the outside to the ordinary eye, he had a great deal of skill when hiding what he was feeling and thinking. The next step was to go to the place of work of the most recently deceased; any other direction would be redundant. Sherlock was curious, as how could he not be? It was so simple a lead, too simple actually. The girl had no one else but coworkers to identify her in death, making her a classic victim to attract such a killer. It spared them of the sentiment of any family missing her when she was gone, and likely her employer had shown last minute when no one else could be found to claim her. Most unfortunate that the dead girl had to have been employed at a nightclub. Not a place he was ever eager to venture if he could help it, but he would do anything for a case.

"Any ideas?" John's voice beside him broke through his coursing river of thoughts. His voice was patient, so it was the first time he had broken the silence in the cab. Often times John grew annoyed when his questions went unanswered, but to be fair, he wasn't always in a present mind frame to hear them. Most of John's questions were predictable, hardly requiring much of Sherlock's attention, but he endured them for his blogger.

"I have seven," Sherlock mused. "But more information is required before any one of those can be conclusive."

John made a small sound of acknowledgement as he tried to work out for himself what ideas those could be. Try as he would, judging by the hard look of concentration on his face, he could not get the ends to add up. "What are we going to look for at her work?"

"We'll speak with the one person who cared enough to identify the body. Should I let you handle that, after all, sentiment is your area." It was sometimes good sport to put John up to a challenge and see what he could deduce for himself. If on a rare occasion he could surprise Sherlock, than it was a successful attempt.

"You want me to do the questioning?" John asked rather baffled. Sherlock hummed in agreement to show he was listening, "Alright. I suspect you'll jump in when I mess it all up anyways."

How right he was. So like his Watson to be up for the task, and a pleasant grin broke out on his round face that Sherlock hadn't seen in the past two months since his return. Not that he cared to admit it, but he had fear deep in his mind that maybe his 'suicide' had broken John. It was obvious that his death would affect his flatmate more than anyone else, but such things Sherlock would not talk about. It also seemed a topic the doctor was not likely to broach anytime soon either. Sharing feelings . . . that was no good.

They entered the east side, a lower scale neighbourhood, not quite meant for the poor and homeless, but any form of decent intellect was going to be a rare find around there. They had left St. Bart's when the sun had gone down, not terribly late for one of their excursions, but late enough for a nightclub to already be fully operational. It was difficult to contain his objection at the mere sight of the establishment. Crowds of young people waiting to get inside while horrible sounds that apparently were described as music pumped out through the door, and he couldn't have been more irritated if he tried. He wasn't so opposed to detest the idea of having to go inside as he was eager for new information, and that was enough to propel himself out of the cab, leaving John to sprint after him. When he slowed his long stride so John could finally managed to catch up with him, Sherlock could hear a few choice words uttered under his breath about paying the fare again. Instead of leading on ahead, Sherlock handed John the business card back with impatience on his face, "Right then, lead the way."

John swallowed thickly as he looked over the card between his fingers, "You want me to start?"

"All part of you asking the questions John. I am simply here to observe." He was confident before the end of this night, that there would be a shift in power and he would have control of the reins again.

Regardless, he followed after his short friend, noting the details of the entrance of the club.  **"Vicarious"** was scrawled out in lights of neon green, illuminating the pavement on the borders of its entrance. Emboldened, John stepped up passed the lineup to the door, a much larger man than both of them combined stood there with a guarded expression on his broad face. When John came up to him, he appeared surprised briefly, and there was recognition on his face that made Sherlock want to groan. Another one of John's fans from the blog it seemed. His flatmate cleared his throat before speaking, "Excuse me, but I was wondering where we might be able to find Avery Nash. This card was left at the hospital, and we'd like to speak with your head of security for a moment."

"You're here because of Taylor." The bouncer mentioned, and he tried to fight the excitement from his voice at the prospect of their showing up. In his calling, there was no room to act friendly, and Sherlock suspected he didn't' want to seem overly enthused that their reason for being present was because of a dead employee. He wasn't one of their customary fans in any case, and Sherlock was pleased he hadn't become star struck over them. "You can go in through the back. Colin will be there to let you in." He had on a headset to be able to communicate with his team of co-workers, speaking into it to let this Colin know they were arriving. While nudging his head to the alleyway to left where they could enter without having to walk through the mobs of youth, he continued his job of letting people in two at a time.

Some of the younger crowd were watching them, an odd mixture of fascination and confusion in their beady eyes. Their generation wasn't a favourite with Sherlock. They fretted over the unimportant, and few lived up to their potential of their age, taking for granted a youthful brain and how much it actually could absorb if it wasn't already filled with drivel and nonsense. He turned his gaze away from them to the dark alley that he and John were now plunging into. The sounds from the entrance filtered down the dark crevice, and only a trash bin and a steel door to the building were artifacts of importance through the pitch length between the buildings.

"Do we just knock?" John wondered as they stopped in front of the door.

Sherlock crinkled his nose as he pulled a face, "That would be a wise place to begin, how astute of you."

John sent him a scathing look as he raised a fist to knock three times. Sherlock could hear John's thoughts yelling at him for being rude, which he chose to ignore. They waited for a moment or two, stuck stupid in the alley before the door swung outward, causing John to leap back in surprise. Another large gentleman of the same make as the one at the entrance was there to let them in. Recognition also passed over his face, but he didn't greet them with any sliver of warmth when he ushered them into a back hallway of the club. The sounds and smells were at Sherlock's senses, muddling his thought process and corroding his stoic mood. At once he was miffed about being there, and he had the distinct impression that he would be interrupting John's sorry attempt at interrogation much swifter than realized.

"Down the hall, first door to your right." Came the blunt directions from bouncer Colin.

Just from looking at him, Sherlock could see passed the muscles and hard exterior to the man worrying over making rent this month because of paying for his mother's hospital bills. He was more than just a dunderhead filled up with testosterone, though he tended to use his fists and rage over rationality to solve his trepidations. Typical club attire for a bouncer; black from head to toe, ink running up along the left side of his arm, venturing under the tight fitted shirt he was flexing in. Made up for his lack of social skills with hardened exterior then. His face was carrying one too many pieces of metal that would set off the detectors at an airport, and his gaze, stone cold. His hair was shaved close to his head, easy upkeep so he was rather lazy. He hadn't worked at the nightclub long; taking the first job he could meet requirements for in the wanted ads because of pressure from his mismanaged finances. On any other day Sherlock knew from first impression that he would have been as jovial to see them as his fellow mate at the front door, but they had the misfortune of catching him on an off night.

Setting his sights on a new target, Sherlock followed John as he made his way down the indicated hallway. There were four other doors excluding the one they were directed to, and Sherlock concluded that one was another office, a storage cupboard, a toilet for staff, and a staff lounge for employees to store their belongings. He would need access to the last one to discover anything else about their victim. Losing focus of his surroundings, he almost missed when John reached for the handle of the door, allowing for them to enter the office. Sherlock felt a small smile tug at his lips, enthralled to see his flatmate go to work.

"Mister Nash, I was wondering if you could spare us a moment of your time to talk with you about your employee, Taylor Greenly."

Short, blonde hair was peaking over the top of the chair before it spun around to reveal a woman. Her brow was raised at John's insinuation of him thinking her a male. It hadn't occurred to Sherlock that John would even make that mistake, for he had known just by Lestrade's body language that the head of security in question was female. Nevertheless, John had already made a mistake, and Sherlock allowed a faint smirk on his face because of it.

"Oh gosh, I am so sorry. Forgive me," John stumbled as his face turned hot."I thought…your name is Avery, and I knew a gentleman—"

"It's alright. You're not the first to make that mistake," And judging by her thin lipped expression, she hoped he would be the last. "Please, take a seat Doctor Watson, and Mr. Holmes." She gestured to the chairs before her desk. In fact, aside from the bulk of the furniture in the middle of the room, the only other item placed against the wall was a metal filing cabinet. That left little for Sherlock to go off of; she didn't even have any pictures on her desk, or a calendar on the wall. Perhaps the barren state of the room itself spoke more of what kind of person Ms. Nash really was. More deduction was required.

"You know our names?" John exclaimed as he carefully brought himself into the chair.

The corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile, "Of course. Everyone here reads your blog; you must have noticed Brendan swooning as he sent you back. We're just like anyone else."

And yet Sherlock didn't believe that for a second, not by what he read from the little she provided. She was difficult to surmise, not the worst he'd ever come across, but a challenge nonetheless, and how he loved those. She was born and bred from London, having only ever left the city for short periods of time for business and leisure. Her skin was pale from being under the grey skies of the city, and no tan lines suggested she didn't venture outside often. The jumper clinging on to the back of her chair smelt of St. Bart's from her past visit to the morgue, so she had indeed been the one to identify the body. From over the desk he could assume by her posture in the chair that she was tall, with a rather straight and unimpressive figure. That didn't keep his flatmate from letting his eyes wander over her of course, and Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes at John's habitual interests in the opposite sex. What she had lacking in curve appeal was made up for with tight muscles. She wasn't big, but she was lithe beneath that over-sized top tucked into her trousers. Her job was head of security, so she could handle herself in a scuffle. Her heather eyes showed indifference which she was struggling to uphold. So she cared about the employee who was murdered, even if she didn't let on about it. Sentiment. Sherlock's eyes traced back up to her hair, the thing that caused John all of his grief the moment they had entered. It was clipped short, purposefully so and certainly not used to attract men. She had no close connections with her family, and her social interactions were kept to the people she surrounded herself with at her job. She was ensconced in a vibe of loss and regret, the usual kind he would expect from someone like her. She was a recovering addict.

"Well, thank you." John cleared his throat as he kept his eyes on her face. Already enamored it seemed, "Are you the owner of the club as well?"

"No, but Max is away for the night, so I have been put in charge to handle any matters regarding Taylor." She explained. "I already met with your fellow from Scotland Yard earlier tonight. I'm not sure if I can recall his name; Lestrade was it?"

"Yes, that's him. He gave us your card." John placed it back on the desk.

"Keep it. I have new ones printed every month." She pushed it back to him with long, steely fingers, painted an iridescent black on the nails. Perhaps an instrument player, though the absence of callus on her fingertips indicated to having not played in years, "What did you hope to see me for?" Her eyes skirted back to Sherlock every so often, and he could sense she was picking up on his unusually quiet behavior. Really, it took the fun out of his plans when the person was aware of his habits, courtesy of John's blog.

"What more can you tell us about Miss Greenly?" John was starting with the simple questions already, which meant his intervention would have to come soon if they were to get anywhere.

"Mmm." She made a sound as she sat back in her chair, "I was unaware you were the detective Doctor, or is there something wrong with Mr. Holmes since his return from the dead?"

Sherlock smiled a bit smugly as he turned to John who wore a dejected face. "Oh go ahead." He motioned in defeat, sensing the end of his charge.

"Finally," Sherlock said with an air of satisfaction as he pulled himself straighter in the chair. "As head of security, it is your job to do the hiring. You conduct background checks on all of the employees before hire. What were Miss Greenly's qualifications?"

"I assume you know what her job really was, and all I can say is she did not communicate with any family so she kept a low profile. She was clean, and she had no prior record. To the world, Taylor Greenly barely existed outside of these doors." Strange, she addressed him as she would any other person to walk through her office, and Sherlock wasn't sure how much he liked that.

"See John?" He asked pointedly, getting back on track.

"Not really, but please continue." The blogger said with a perplexed expression.

Sherlock felt slightly disappointed at how simple others minds could be. If only they would allow their eyes to see what was clearly before them, however, it would appear he would have to clarify. "Miss Greenly was not unlike the other two victims before her. However, the first two bodies went unclaimed, but Miss Greenly has a network of employees here, ready and willing to identify, something our killer did not anticipate. Such a careless mistake, and so early on," Sherlock tutted. "Who is in charge of the books here?"

"Why, are you planning on telling your friend at the Yard about my boss being a glorified pimp as well as a bookie?" She uncrossed her legs from beneath the desk to give him a sharp look.

"Irrelevant. Neither factor is necessary or significant to the details to solve the case. Obviously your boss isn't the killer, so his illegal activities mean little to me." He remarked offhandedly. "I will need access to the staff lounge to see any personal items left behind by the victim."

"Sherlock, you can't just go take her personal items because you want to." John said with horror on his face.

Sherlock looked nonplussed, "But I asked."

John heaved a sigh before Avery interrupted them, "Actually, I feel no trouble letting you take her things. No one else will come to claim them, except maybe men from the Yard, and I'd rather they remain in your possession if they will do you any good."

She rose form her seat, and as he suspected, she was tall. This of course was welcomed by John, his eyes snapping to her legs in black denim as she strode around the desk. She had a ring of keys kept around a chain on her neck, searching through them until she clasped a small brass one between her fingers, "Come with me."

Sherlock was up and out of his seat before she could get the door of her office opened while John lagged behind. She was rather cooperative, but only because she detested police offers. Sherlock made that out the moment she had to be reminded of Lestrade's name as well as the tone she used when discussing the Yard. They walked along the stiff carpet of the hallway to the last door. Easy to make out it was the staff lounge because of the many hand prints dirtying the handle. Avery pushed opened the door, it not having been locked after all. The key was for Taylor's locker instead, which she quickly led them over to as she hit the lights on in the large room. It was like a spell had been casted as the light uncovered the many mysteries that darkness concealed. The room was sparse with furniture, and a small kitchenette was situated in the corner. Two old couches were in the center of the room, beading around the edges that was starting to fray, and a low table was placed in the middle with scuff marks on the varnish from one too many pairs of shoes resting up upon it. It smelt like cold coffee and tea.

"She didn't keep much I'm afraid." Avery spoke again as she revealed the personal contents kept inside of Taylor's cubby hole, "She usually prepared for work back at her flat before coming here."

She took a step aside to allow for Sherlock to dig through the few articles of clothing and knick-knacks that had been in the victim's possession before she was murdered. Typical prostitute, though hardly a normal brothel she worked under. John and Avery stood beside him as he observed the items, picking one at a time before discarding it back into the pile. Every single one wasn't worth future referencing. He would delete all of that immediately. An idea came to him: something Avery had said, "Do you have a key to her flat? It would be much more convenient than having to break in."

"We are not breaking into a dead woman's' flat!" John hissed before giving an apologetic look to Avery, "I'm sorry, he's rather tactless sometimes."

Avery was not offended however, giving Sherlock a curious look, "What would you need into her flat for?"

"Her body was discovered just around the street corner of her living address. I need to see a setting to establish a visual of what occurred."

He didn't expect her to understand this concept, but her face remained passive as she nodded, "Good enough, but you will have to take me with you. I have a spare key to her flat that the police don't know about, and imagine how it would look if I just let it out to anybody? Even Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock pulled a face at the idea of a woman accompanying him and John to a crime scene. It felt like an intrusion on their time together, something he had worked to establish since his return. John's eyes were sparkling with delight at the prospect of it though, and Sherlock would be damned if he'd have to sit through another silly attempt at John dating, especially someone from such a different wavelength than the blogger. "It won't be intruding on your work, would it?" John asked considerately.

"Thursday nights are slow, and Colin and Brendan can handle things while I'm away." She excused, "Just give me a moment to grab my things from my office."

They stepped out of the staff lounge, Avery hitting the lights at the last second before she abandoned them in the back hallway of the club for her office. John watched as she disappeared, his face glowing slightly as he spoke, "She seems friendly."

"Honestly John, must you chat up every female you come across?" Sherlock said distastefully, "And I wouldn't hold your hopes out for a shag. She's—what's the expression—out of your league?"

John looked indignant from the remark, "Rubbish! What would you know about that?"

"She has had relations with her boss, Maxwell, in the past. Quite simple to deduce from her tone to the switching of her positions when she discussed him. She is also a recovering addict."

John appeared gutted from the information as well as peeved, "I don't think you should be telling me that, and who are you to place judgement on that anyways?"

Sherlock frowned, "It wasn't a judgment call, just the simple truth."

Instantly John's face lightened, and he held his mouth opened, ready to apologise for the third time that night if it wasn't for the connecting door to the club opening, revealing a rather scantily glad woman as the loud music followed her through. Her eyes took them both in and a grin broke out on her painted up face. She was another one of the woman from the club with that unsightly high hair, fake eyelashes, fake nails and fake breasts which she pushed up a little higher in her racy top. A prostitute then, or maybe a call girl was a more polite term to go along with the running of the establishment. All Sherlock was able to distinguish between the lyrics of the song that had flowed through when she had opened the door was her positive attitude. He was often taken aback by such people, much like his homeless network, on how they could keep so merry under the circumstances they were placed under. So willing to live life regardless of societies standards.

"Hello boys." The box-colour ginger greeted them as she stalked towards them in impossibly high heeled shoes, "Are you two together?"

John cleared his throat, and probably to prevent from choking on her heady perfume, "No, we're just waiting for someone."

"Maribel maybe? She'll do one at a time. I can do you both at once, but it'll cost you double." She smiled at them sweetly, twisting a stray lock around her finger as she flashed her pearly whites, ready to sink into them.

Johns face flooded into a blush of mortification, and Sherlock would admit to being uncomfortable now that she had propositioned them. He pulled at his scarf around his neck, looking at the wall beside the redhead as she giggled at them. Now he was embarrassed. A woman's teasing laughter reminded him of past things he'd rather forget, and it made him feel inadequate.

"Wendi, get away from them!" Small miracles did happen. Even though they'd only just become acquainted, both he and John were relieved by Avery's return. Her face was stern as she fussed with her jumper, tugging it down by the hem while she stormed towards them. The hallway was now congested with people, though the ginger (whose name was Wendi evidently) looked unsure of herself with Avery's arrival. "They aren't customers; they're detectives here because of Taylor."

"Consulting detective." Sherlock interjected.

"Pardon?" Avery stopped to give him a hard look.

"John is the doctor, and I'm the consulting detective."

"I'm aware." She deadpanned before turning to Wendi, "I'm leaving for a while. Did you need something?"

"Well, Max isn't here, but I was wondering if I could have Saturday night off?" Her flirty tone had vanished as she spoke seriously with the female head of security. The matter she was inquiring for had to do with a family member Sherlock gathered just by the way her shoulders had sagged. This Wendi looked similar to Taylor because of her coloured hair, and he wondered if all the women were copies of one another here. He didn't wish to remain around long enough to find out though.

"Saturday's are busy Wendi." Avery reminded, "But I'll see what I can do for you."

"Oh, thank you!" She threw her arms around Avery in an awkward hug that managed to make everyone in the vicinity uncomfortable. Avery patted her back a few times to get the girl to let go, which she finally did, "Good luck playing investigator and you boys ask for my name when you come back. I'll give you a discount." She said, winking at John and Sherlock before she pranced on back to the club.

"I'm sorry, she's a bit daft that one, though charming to a fault." Avery pacified as she addressed them, "We can go out through the back."

She didn't need to say anymore before Sherlock took off in the direction of forward. His own peace of mind called for more information as he dissected the last remnants of the club as he strode down the corridors of the curious destination. He found his way back to Colin at the backdoor, the man raising his head to look at the three of them. Avery shared a brief hushed word with him, but Sherlock was able to eavesdrop. She was giving him orders to take charge of the club until her return, and some other warnings about the possibility of police officers from the Yard stopping by to investigate. Vicarious was a place full of secrets, but they kept a tight rein on it.

"We can leave." Avery said as Colin held open the door for them to walk through.

Sherlock fell back beside John as she wandered ahead alone to the edge of the pavement. She seemed to have no luck hailing a cab, much to Sherlock's quiet amusement from afar. He could feel John's eyes on him from his peripheral vision, wonder on his face. "Ask your question before we are in her company again."

John looked taken aback, but he didn't hesitate, "Did you know she was a woman?"

"Obviously. I find it difficult to comprehend you did not know that."

"You could have informed me of that before we arrived. That was bloody humiliating." John replied, his ears turning pink again, and not from the chill in the air.

"Was it?" Sherlock asked confounded.

John merely huffed, changing the course of their conversation. "How do you know she's a recovering addict?"

Some of the previous elation from the thrill of night left him. He wished he had an answer that would impress John, but really, it was a much finer line than that. One the his flatmate wouldn't understand. "I knew Harry was a drinker without ever having to meet her. There's nothing different John, I just know."

"And her past relationship with her boss? He wasn't even in the room for you to distinguish that."

Had that ever stopped him before? "What silly things go on in that head of yours John?" He sighed disparagingly.

His friend smile shortly as they stopped beside Avery. In an instant, Sherlock was able to call out for a cab successfully, her eyes glowering at him incredulously as they all muscled their way into the black vehicle. John ended up in the middle with them on either side of him, filling up the backseat while Avery gave the directions to the cabbie. Sherlock turned his attentions to the outside of his city. This was his home, one of the few things he felt any attachment to, and his body came alive with excitement to be dealing with another case as the boredom bled away. Somewhere out there was danger; all he had to do was reach out with his mind to find it.

 


	3. Stickman & Barstool

The cab was mostly silent with the exception of the odd shift of a body moving against the fabric of the seat. This was all well and good for Avery, but it was clear the Doctor was itching to say something. They certainly hadn't turned out quite like she had imagined from her casual viewing of his blog, as well as word of mouth. Watson was something of old-fashioned, what with his coloured jumpers, penny loafers on his feet, and overall gentlemanly mannerisms. The roundness of his face was youthful paired with the tuft of soft blond hair on his head, and not a blemish or spec of facial hair to be found(except for the Godawful mustache that seemed oddly out of place). As he had entered her office, she comically thought he was short like the bar stools in the club, but a tough fellow whose worth could be weighed in how he longed to help people. Typical doctor. A good egg one might say, though not what she was conventionally used too.

She could recall Sherlock's face in the past newspapers she would skim through with her morning coffee, and nothing about him had taken her by surprise. His cheekbones were high and the lines of his face were sharp, making him appear harsh rather than handsome. Nothing was particularly inviting about his personality, but that was okay, she wasn't the friendliest person to come across either. Unlike his flatmate, he was rather tall, his weight stretched out over a thin body like a stick figure dressed in brand names. His pale eyes said as much as his mouth did, continuously stealing information, robbing a person blind of all they thought they knew about themselves. She was already pondering what he had read from her, and was thankful he hadn't spoken up yet. Of course, she was on borrowed time; inevitably he would bombard her with something of a deduction. Lucky for her they were headed out to a crime scene, a spot in which she caught the distinct impression she was not welcomed to go, just by the tension in the cab.

"You have a rather interesting job." John commented politely, though there was a question backing that statement. It was the first thing anyone had said since their departure from Vicarious, and bless him for making an effort.

"I suppose." She replied cryptically, keeping her eyes focused outside the window.

"Honestly you do." He insisted as he turned his body slightly to face her. From the other end of the cab, Sherlock was watching them indiscreetly, but he didn't speak, opting to listen instead. "You had things sorted back there, and people probably see you as one of the men."

She let out a bark of laughter with her head thrown back. It was a deep and rich sound, though unmistakably feminine. It warranted Sherlock's brief attention, him watching her as if she had gone mad while John grew embarrassed about what he had just said, "You're funny John Watson." She said smartly as she settled from her fit.

"I didn't mean it how it sounded. Obviously you aren't gay. Not that it would be a problem if you were; Lord knows we've been accused of that enough." John was rambling, and he frowned at himself for doing so, his hands tightening in his lap as his knuckles turned white.

"Thank you for that reassurance Doctor." She told him, her face absent of any scorn or wrongdoing caused on his part which helped him to relax, "Am I so obviously heterosexual, or did Mr. Holmes tell you that?"

John's mouth flew opened, but nothing was leaving, and he quickly shut it with a wry smile, "Well he might have said something." He said quietly.

"You've had sexual relations with your boss Maxwell." Sherlock cut in from the left.

The cab shot into silence. Well now, she hadn't anticipated that. He was reading too much into the relationship she suspected, as she could make out from his words anyways. Everyone was waiting for her response—or overreaction, judging from the look of concern on John's face—but she sat quietly for a moment, a thoughtful expression as she adjusted her defenses to later be prepared for such blunt allegations from the consulting detective. Even the cabbie was watching them through the mirror, though John looked thoroughly put out by that, "Oiy, watch the road and try not to kill us!"

The cabbie grumbled something unintelligible as his eyes went back to the black streets ahead. No doubt his ears were still tuned to whatever they were saying, but he had enough decency to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping. He wasn't fooling anyone. In that short time, Avery had come up with the best explanation she could conjure to appease whatever notion Sherlock had about her and Max, "Actually, we're just friends. One time we thought and tried to be something more, but it didn't work out that way." That was the lightest, and most censored way she would describe it to two strangers.

Unfortunately Sherlock was inept in the ways of sexual experience, because he was frowning with puzzlement. John was better at handling his flatmate though, coming forward to answer to save her the trouble, "Honestly Sherlock, she's trying to say they never had sex."

"Oh . . ." His brows came out of their furrowed state in favor of a stoic look. He then scowled again at the news of being informed he was incorrect, "One little mistake." He muttered.

The cab ride couldn't have ended sooner, and for everyone. The cabbie seemed pleased to be rid of them too as they finally stopped at Taylor's street by the building of her flat. Out of courtesy (and as an apology) Avery paid half of the fare with John, calling it even for them having to share in such an awkward night. First Wendi at the club, and now this. She'd be thankful if they got by without any more demeaning occurrences.

She and John caught up to Sherlock at the pelican crossing as they made their way across the street. A section of road and pavement was taped off from the public, but Avery got a sense that the dark stain on the pavement wasn't oil from a car. This was where Taylor had been found, ringed in by a neighbour in the early hours of the morning after the horrific find. Without regard, Sherlock lifted the tape and walked under to get to the centre of the scene. She raised a brow in question at John and he shrugged carefree, "He does that. You just have to get used to it. Normally we would be the first to arrive on a scene with the Yard, but the frantic neighbour caused a ruckus, so the forensics team beat us here before we got a chance to see the state of her body."

"I see." Avery remarked as she fought off a sick feeling at the image of Taylor from the morgue in her mind once again, "Lead the way Doctor."

She was sure his short height could probably walk directly under the tape without having to barely crouch, but he chivalrously held it up with his arm for her to follow. She forced a small smile as she walked along his side, and the effort was greatly appreciated by John as he gave a boyish beam in return. They paused a short distance away from Sherlock, and he appeared to have fallen away from them, into the crevices of his mind. One might have thought he was angered by the hard expression in his eyes, but they were trained solely on the dark patch of pavement, bloodstains left behind by Taylor's corpse, no doubt from her empty eye sockets.

"He's er—in his Mind Palace." John was quick to explain, though he spoke in a hushed tone so as to not take the risk in interrupting Sherlock, and as respect to the sleeping occupants in the adjacent building. "He'll put together a scene in his head of what occurred here to the victim when her body was left. Lestrade will likely text the pictures from the earlier crime scene anyway, but it's amazing what Sherlock can come up with without any evidence."

Avery watched John as he stared at his friend in admiration. He truly was in awe of the man, and she thought it was completely endearing, the devotion he had to the consulting detective. He was hardly aware of it, but to any outsiders it was plain as day. "He's a true genius, that friend of yours."

"Thank you." John supplied suddenly.

"What for?"

"For not calling him a freak." John frowned slightly as he shook his head of whatever unpleasant thoughts had entered it. "Most people don't find Sherlock to be anything other than a thorn in their side, and only because they hate his blatant nature to speak the truth."

"I understand. People love to have secrets, but more importantly to keep them private. I would know. It's my job after all." She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her grey jumper to fend off from the biting chill of the late autumn weather. Her eyes started to dart around the area, hating it, but fascinated all at once, "Do you have any idea which neighbour rang in the call?"

"Lestrade mentioned he was an older fellow who lives alone."

"Mr. Sherman then." Avery concluded.

John turned to look at her quizzically, "You know her neighbours?"

"Well, I'm acquainted with them. Sometimes I'd have to come over here if Taylor's boyfriend was giving her trouble." She explained.

"Trouble?"

"There's more than one explanation, but to make things short, he didn't treat Taylor with exemplary behavior." John's brows pulled together in a mixture of concern and curiosity, "I know what you're thinking, and I can already confirm that it wasn't the boyfriend. For one thing, he's too stupid to not have been caught yet, and he's been avoiding Taylor for the past few weeks now."

"And why is that?"

"Because he owes Max a good sum of money." It seemed like John had forgotten for a moment that she worked in an indecent business, and she almost smiled at the look of understanding on his face as all the pieces started to fit together before his eyes, "Sneaky git knew if he went anywhere near her, she'd give him up to us."

"I suppose that information is kept in your boss's books?" John and Avery both flinched back in surprise at Sherlock who was now standing in front of them. Neither of them had heard him leave his statuesque position to move over towards them. He didn't know or care much for boundaries it seemed, because he was right in Avery's face until she had to take a step back while scowling at him.

"Of course." They were back on the subject of Max's books again; something she had thought was dropped back at her office, "Why are you so curious over such a small detail?"

"Hardly a small detail, but I could see how someone like you would make that mistake." He said frankly, and she noticed John shaking his head beside her, "Brendan is in charge of keeping them obviously, as Colin was a recent hire by your boss."

She opened her mouth, ready to ask how he knew that, but thought better of it. He was dangerously observant, and she'd make sure to tread lightly around him, "You don't miss a thing Mr. Holmes."

She might have thought he was pleased with the compliment if his face hadn't have soured, "Sherlock, please." He corrected.

"This is simply a business transaction for me, and I would prefer to call you by your last name."

The mood on the street was tense, though lucky there was John there to prevent any altercations, "Which is fine on both accounts. Are we about ready to move on from here?" He asked reasonably.

"To the flat, yes." Sherlock said aloud, though his eyes lingered on her without any emotion. "Go on Miss. Nash, we're waiting."

Oh honestly, what a child. She wanted to roll her eyes at his ability to stoop to such behavior. It was strange to be addressed by her last name, made her feel like a Sunday school teacher. Maybe his opinion was the same, prompting him to make the request to be called Sherlock. In any case, they weren't going to be swapping war stories over a pint anytime soon though, so why bother with the effort, "Alright." She remarked evenly.

She played with the key in her hand, leading the way for them into the building where Taylor's flat was located. Bit of a rundown area, and the carpets inside were in bad need of replacing by the landlord, along with a handful of other fixtures. The dimly lit entryway was empty and she used another key given by Taylor to unlock the door to the small stairwell in the back corner of the building. There were only five floors, and Taylor's flat was on the third. Sherlock pushed ahead of her, managing silence while taking the steps two at a time as John followed behind with her. He seemed no more embarrassed by Sherlock's behavior now that she was adjusted to it, no longer making faces at his outlandish workings. By no surprise, Sherlock was standing before the door to Taylor's flat when they got to the top, a line of tape from the Yard draped across the barrier that he unceremoniously tore off without apology. If they got through the search of the flat without waking the old codger (Mr. Sherman) it would be a miracle. She carefully put the key into the lock and turned the handle, inviting them into the dark of poor Taylor's home.

"No one happened to have brought a torch with them, did they?" John asked as he shut the door behind him. He tested the switch in the first hall with his hand to no avail, "Her lights don't seem to be working."

"That girl always fell behind on her bills." Avery said disappointingly. It wasn't as if Max wasn't able to pay his girls well, but some of them weren't very carefully with the money they earned, and to no one's fault but their own.

Sherlock didn't respond as he allowed himself to venture inside. He must have felt their conversation was wasted on him, which Avery also felt it was. An amazing individual he was. She was a quiet observer, but was secretly curious about what he could come up with here in the flat. Probably wasn't much of a secret actually, since everything was a free-for-all around him, "By mobile light then?" She suggested as she held hers up to create a path with the faint blue glow.

John followed suit as they made their way across the sitting room. Avery had been there enough to know it like the back of her hand. The red settee still had the obnoxious crochet blanket draped across the back, and the picture frame hung above the telly was still crooked. An ugly thing, washed out pastel water coloured flowers in a vase, something one would pick up at a market on discount. Avery simpered at Taylor's taste in decorating while John walked over to the kitchenette. The loo was just off to the right, and the bedroom was down the hall, clearly where Sherlock had gone off to.

"She didn't do much for cleanup I see." John called out as he examined the counter.

Avery followed his voice over, noting the cold bowl of cereal still sitting out, the milk spoiling after being left for over twenty four hours, give or take. A smudge of lipstick was on the spoon, halfway up the handle because Taylor felt she had to deep-throat everything she put into her mouth apparently. Dirty dishes were thrown into the sink, and starting to smell as both she and John held back on gagging with their sleeves up to their noses. He stepped over on the tile to explore the fridge next, only to let out a yelp of surprise as something jumped out at him from above, "Bloody hell, what was that?!" He cried as he brushed a hand over his head with wide eyes.

Avery shined her mobile on his face, before lowering it to the ground where a small creature was hissing, rubbing up against the doctor's trouser, "It's her damn cat." She said with a hint of disgust, "I thought that thing had long since run away."

With agility, it leapt up from the ground on to the counter, slinking over to the dishes, licking some brown substance of a plate with its flat tongue. It was a calico, all patchy colours of black, white and tan from head to tail with long hair that grated on Avery's allergies. She was afraid that Taylor hadn't been very original with the name either, branding it as Lucy.

"Poor thing probably hasn't eaten anything decent." John muttered, getting over his initial shock as he scratched the cat behind its ears. A soft purring erupted into the room from Lucy.

"Then I'll leave you in charge to look after her, at least until you can find her a home. I'm allergic so I'm not taking her." Avery said as she rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve.

"We're not adopting a cat." Sherlock rebuked sharply as he returned from the hallway, his head buried in his phone while he walked without looking where he was going. No doubt he already had the flat mapped out in his head, because he did so without hassle, halting beside her at the edge of the counter while John stood guard over Lucy.

"What did you find out?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock's complete rejection to the animal.

"Nothing I didn't already know." He confirmed as the window in the sitting room caught his eye. He strode over to it, pulling back on the drapes as he looked out the window, down to the street, "Interesting."

"What is?" John asked before she could, so she remained silent.

"The killer was watching her, he knew she lived here." Both Avery and John flanked Sherlock on either side, taking a look out the window to where the crime scene was clearly visible. "They had been acquainted by a chance meeting. Not a friend, but someone she knew, enough at least for him to entice her to come down from the flat. She wasn't murdered outside of this building though. He took her somewhere private, but then returned to dump back here; evident by the way her body was strewn out across the pavement."

Lestrade had sent him pictures on his phone from the scene that he and John had missed out on earlier that same day. The way her body was positioned made it seem like she had been shoved out of a vehicle, her legs bent at odd angles with her arms thrown up over her head. Avery didn't need to see her face, lidless and without eyes, so she frowned at her feet instead, "What time did all of this occur?" She asked lowly.

Sherlock brushed past her, his target the cereal bowl. Lucy watched him carefully, cleaning her paws on the counter as he inhaled the pungent scent of the curdling milk, "This is from yesterday morning, not today. I assume she arrived home late after working at the club. She came here to her flat, changed her clothing but did not bother to clean up in the kitchen or her bedroom by the state of it. Shortly before going to sleep, she would have stopped by the window to shut the drapes, only to discover our unknown murderer outside. They always choose the night hours. Dark, discreet and with no Mr. Sherman awake to see. How dull." He sounded disappointed by the obvious actions of the murderer, but Avery didn't feel bothered by his candor as he continued, "Her work outfit is still discarded on the floor in her bedroom, so she didn't change as she left for downstairs to meet him. He came by car, made up an excuse only her kind would fall for which was her undoing. I believe he was rushed because of the small window left from her returning home late. Clear signs of many mistakes not found with the first two victims. He injected her with a tranquilizer, quick and easy, giving him time to move her back here before dawn. I will need to see the toxicology report from Molly to confirm the drug used."

"But what is his motive, why the eyes?" John prodded as he picked Lucy up under her belly.

"The right questions John." Sherlock said, leaving his flatmate to stare at him oddly, "Besides her dim wit of a boyfriend, are there others who she might have known from her work. . ?"

"Other clients you mean." Avery completed for him, "None she would have formed a relationship with. Most of the buyers are one-timers. They use a girl once, and we don't see them again. That makes it hard to keep track of who to trust."

"Obviously." Sherlock scoffed.

He turned to say something to John while her phone buzzed in her hand. She quickly read it, ignoring the men in the room with her.

_**Funeral for Taylor on Saturday morning at 11. Why aren't you at the club?** _

— _ **MR**_

Her boss certainly worked with haste for the proper arrangements, always a comforting reminder. She gripped her phone tight as she replied back.

_**At Taylor's flat with consulting detective and doctor. I'll head back right now.** _

— _ **AN**_

"Sorry to cut this night short gentlemen, but I need to leave." She said as she pocketed her phone.

"Right. I think we've seen all there is, right Sherlock?" John agreed as he looked to his friend.

"Yes." He supplied shortly before heading to the door.

John and Avery followed, sharing a look as they exited the flat. The Yard would return to the flat tomorrow to conduct their search, a futile effort, but John carefully arranged the tape back in order on the door after Avery had locked up. No one would be any wiser to their being there, at least, not by how Sherlock judged the standard of the police. She turned to John, a bemused look on her face as he held Lucy carefully in his coat, "They aren't going to let you in a cab with her."

"We'll see about that." He said confidently, "I think she'll make nice company for our landlady."

Avery merely stared until they quietly made their way down the steps after Sherlock. He appeared impatient by their slow pace and Avery quickly locked the door to the stairwell behind her before breaking out into the cold night again. The air was nipping at her face, her fringe blowing back out of her eyes as the breeze picked up speed. They'd have to walk out to a main street to catch a cab at this hour, the surrounding area dark and muted as the three fell in a straight line. The light of passing streetlamps reflected off of hers and John's blonde hair, but Sherlock was like a walking shadow, absorbing all of the brightness into his dark form as his long stride started to pull ahead of their leisurely pace.

John was watching her again, a question begging at him to say something to her, and that got her back up about what it could be, "Avery, would you like to get a cup of coffee with me sometime?"

She released a long breath until she thought her lungs would collapse. Oh bloody hell. Getting asked out on a date hadn't been what she was expecting. This wasn't good territory for her. It had been forever since she'd done anything of the sort; men just didn't know or want to ask for her company, all save for one. She felt like a fish out of water, her mouth quivering as she tried to come up with a realistic answer until Sherlock cut her off, "By the look on her face she wants to say no, but she also wants to spare your feelings at the same time John."

John looked red with rage and humiliation, a bit pathetic that Avery felt she had to come to his rescue, "I can't tomorrow, but I see it in our future." She interjected.

"Great!" John exclaimed, immediately forgetting his grievances with the consulting detective.

However, Sherlock appeared miffed by her resigning to a date with his flatmate. She wasn't even offended by the look he was tossing her, because she saw through what John couldn't. She was intruding in the small circle of their lives, something threatening to him getting back on track after his faked suicide. If they had been without John's company, she probably would've called him out on it, not afraid to tease the consulting detective when most of his responses were childish gestures. Dating wasn't really her forte anyways, so perhaps she would placate Mr. Holmes just this once, "Maybe I will come over and visit your flat sometime to see Lucy at her new home. I rather enjoyed my night out with both of you."

She raised a brow at Sherlock as he was no longer frowning, simply staring at her like she was something of a rarity. Frazzled or not, he turned his eyes back to the road as they arrived at a main strip of street, circulating with activity. It was presumed that he was the best at hailing at cab, so he took to flagging one down while she stood aside with John, him fussing to hide the squirming lump in his coat. No doubt Lucy would be leaving all matter of nasty scratches and snags in the material of his jumper, but he was determined to take her back to their flat. Her eyes were already burning from being in the vicinity of cat hair for more than a few minutes, and she still had a night of work to get through.

Finally a black cab stopped at the edge of the pavement, Avery throwing herself in first so she wouldn't be forced to sit next to John and the cat. Being stuck in the middle obviously wasn't to Sherlock's liking because he was sitting rather tense and barely moving to inhale. Either that or she made him uncomfortable. She suspected that was more likely, because he was as far away from her shoulder as he could get, crowding John into the door on the other end. If the Doctor noticed, he didn't say anything. The cab cut into traffic, with the driver none the wiser about John's hidden animal friend in the front of his coat. Avery let her eyes dart around the interior of the vehicle, her eyes catching the distinct light of a phone in Sherlock's palm. Funny, it looked familiar to her. She then caught on that it was Taylor's mobile, something he must have deemed useful enough to take from the flat.

"Hoping to read her messages are we?" She whispered beside him, raising questions about the phone. "Some people would call that stealing."

"I'm not some people." He said with clear disgust, "And it could be that she has had contact with him. The first two victims were found without phones in their possession, but hers was left behind and out of his reach. The company will cancel the service after a few days, and we would lose the information that could possibly be stored in here."

John was now listening in, grinning slightly at Sherlock's clipped tone as he explained this to her. Avery sat back, a bland look on her face as she continued to watch him try and break the code of the phone. They were going to stop at her work first, seeing as she actually had somewhere to be. John was looking exhausted, but Sherlock seemed as spry as a spring chicken, even if his feathers were ruffled with her presence. What she had said wasn't a lie; she had enjoyed their company, more than she had with any others in a long time. Work relations didn't count.

It didn't seem long before they were back in front of the lights and sounds of Vicarious, Brendan still at the door ushering in the small Thursday crowd while he nodded his head in acknowledgment in her direction. She opened the car door, pausing halfway while getting out, turning back to Sherlock, "Try 0823, it was her birthday in case you were wondering. She always lied about the day."

It was getting painful to continue watching him guess, and she wanted to put him out of his misery. Apparently not the way to go as he was peeved by being told the answer, and it warranted an indignant look from him. She gave him a coy smirk before stepping out and closing the door in his face before he could retort. The cab started to pull away, and she could see John's head moving as he shifted to say something to his flatmate. Something scolding no doubt. An interesting pair indeed and she would hold true to that promise of an open invite to tea at their flat, if only to have new amity for a little while longer.

 


	4. Mourning Brunch

It had been two days. Well, a day and a half really. They'd gone with Avery to Taylor's in the middle of the night, so technically speaking it hadn't been all that long. Lucy was fitting in nicely at Baker Street, though even as she had been meant as a present for Mrs. Hudson, she always seemed to be finding her way back upstairs into 221B. John thought he would have a disaster on his hands because of that, but mostly Lucy would sit perched at the edge of the arm on the couch, watching Sherlock pensively, and his flatmate would stare right back. It was a little ridiculous in fact, and John had fallen into the habit of watching them watch each other. It beat anything that was on the telly these days.

After their productive Thursday night, they had returned back to Baker Street with no other evidence to go on, save for the plastic bag of personal items from the victim that Lestrade had dropped off as Sherlock had requested. He merely had glanced at in disinterest before officially stating there was nothing of use towards the case in its contents. The phone hadn't been of much help either, though to John, it seemed Sherlock had lost appeal for the device since Avery had told him the correct passcode. Unfortunately toxicology reports could take days to be completed, so Molly hadn't got back to them yet either. Of course if she could rush it, she would. It was for Sherlock after all.

All of Friday had commenced rather slowly, and it turned out to be grueling for John. He had no shift at the clinic, so he was forced to stay in the flat with Sherlock. With no more leads on the case, that prodded Sherlock's boredom to surface. The familiar image of Sherlock in his dressing gown on the couch had made him smile in the morning, but by the afternoon he was ready to throw him out the window. In those past two years, he had forgotten how taxing the consulting detective could be with nothing to occupy his mind. Even for a moments escape, John had gone out to pick up milk (again), stopped to chat for a while with Mrs. Hudson, and had even rang Lestrade to see if there was anything worthy enough to get Sherlock out of the flat. That had bought him a good fifty-four minutes, but he had inevitably ended up back at Baker Street. He'd been tempted to text Avery back, as she had left him with her card and number, but getting in touch the next day seemed a tad too desperate. He was also starting to see what Sherlock had meant about her being out of his league, not that he was selling himself short. She was a little more different than what he usually looked for in a date, and it was only too plain that they weren't after the same things. Still, there was no harm in getting to know her, if only as friends, and he did find her attractive in an intimidating kind of way.

By Friday night things had changed when Lestrade had texted information that Taylor's boss had put together a funeral for her the Saturday morning to follow. Sherlock seemed bent on the idea of meeting with the owner of Vicarious, though to what purpose was lost on John. The consulting detective was thorough, working from all angles, and it stood to reason that faceless Max was one of those angles. It didn't mean John was for the idea of crashing a funeral, but Saturday morning had come, and he had risen early while Sherlock was downstairs on the couch, already dressed after a night of no sleep. What did one wear to a funeral when they weren't even acquainted to the deceased? Damned if he knew as he held up different fabrics to himself, but black was a safe colour option, so he stuck with dark trousers and a wool jumper before leaving his room.

"I don't like this idea." He commented, making it known his distaste of the plan as he entered the room to find his flatmate in a staring match with Lucy once again. Sherlock was hunched over on the couch, chin rested upon steepled fingers with Lucy sitting across on their coffee table. "What if they turn us away at the gate?"

"Freedom to mourn, John." Sherlock said without looking up.

"You've hardly mourned a day in your life."

Sherlock scoffed, "Untrue. I mourn every day for the turn our society has taken."

John frowned, knowing there was an insult buried somewhere within that sentence. He stifled a yawn, moving into the kitchen to quickly grab a small bite to eat before they made their way out to the funeral. There wasn't much sense in offering Sherlock anything, not when they were stuffed down deep in a case. The only edible thing he could find were a few slices of bread, and old honey starting to crystallize in the jar. He really needed to go to Tesco again, or this would be the only thing he would survive on. Their milk supply was always disappearing anyway, and though he'd picked up a new fresh one the previous day, he knew they'd be out soon enough. He buttered a thin layer of honey on each slice of toast just as footsteps could be heard coming upstairs to their flat. It sounded like a shuffling pace, so most likely Mrs. Hudson looking for Lucy again.

John stepped out of the kitchen just as Mrs. Hudson popped in through the door, her face breaking into a tender smile at the cat seated in front of Sherlock. Without considering her next move, she walked across the floor to pick up the feline under her belly, only to have Sherlock release a sound of frustration, "Mrs. Hudson!" He snapped in annoyance.

Their elder landlady looked to John, baffled by such an exclamation from Sherlock. John had his toast shoved into his mouth, ripping off a bite and chewing before he could answer her with a rather bizarre explanation, "They were engaged in a staring contest."

"Interference: I win by default." He declared.

"Oh heavens Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said with a laugh, "I just thought you ought to know there is a cab waiting for you downstairs."

Instantly Sherlock shot up from the couch, throwing on his coat and scarf while John dropped his toast sadly back on to its plate, discarding it on the table. So much for breakfast, he'd have to settle for a late lunch if he was lucky, "Come, John." Sherlock called even though they stood but a few feet from each other.

"Where are you two off too so early?" Mrs. Hudson inquired as she balanced Lucy under one arm, picking up John's plate with the other. Tidying up again it would seem.

"Funeral." Sherlock answered bluntly before he was out the door and down the steps.

Mrs. Hudson stood with a shocked face, her eyes forming an apology, "Oh my, who did you lose dear?"

"Oh no." John immediately refuted, "It's not like that. It's for a case."

"I'm not sure I understand."

That made two of them, "Me either."

He shut the door after him, tackling the stairs in pursuit of Sherlock who was already waiting outside in the cab. There was a foul nip in the air and a light spray of rain, autumn nearly finished as it teetered over the edge into winter. John could see his breath as he warmed his hands, pulling himself into the opened door of the cab that his flatmate had left opened for him. Sherlock read the list of the directions off his phone as they took off into early morning traffic. Honestly, John was feeling choked up about the whole ordeal. The last funeral he had been too was for the man currently occupying the seat next to him. Now he felt embarrassed whenever he thought back to his words at the grave site, begging his friend to stop being dead when he'd been there to listen. His pride was having a difficult time coming back from that one, and he wasn't used to floundering this often. Sherlock made a point to not address this issue of course, so it would be better if he could just put it out of his mind as well. Too bad he couldn't just delete memories on a whim.

"Shouldn't we be bringing flowers or something?" John wondered, his hands suddenly feeling empty without anything to occupy them.

"No time for that, we're late already."

Not only were they showing up to a funeral uninvited, but they would be showing late. Not that he was insecure, but John liked for people to have a good impression of him, and he wondered what Avery's reaction would be upon their arrival. He was tempted to text her in warning, but Sherlock would know what he was up to, and it wouldn't be the first time he would lose his phone to the consulting detective. With nothing better to do, he kept his gaze outside, wishing time would go by faster, or at least the traffic. It was mind-numbingly dull to watch the other vehicles pass by while the windows were pelted with water droplets. Such an assessment was something Sherlock would say, and some of those little habits were still rubbing off on him occasionally.

As early as it was, they were able to make good time through the streets of London. Nothing but workaholic's and youth out at this hour. It was all starting to feel like a very familiar journey, and John cursed the site of the cemetery as they stopped just a block away from its entrance. He didn't even hesitate to pay the fare this time, and he was out of the cab at Sherlock's side as they flew under the rain that had now transformed from drizzle to a steady flow. Over the low markers of the grave sites, it was easy to spot a group of people standing in a circle in ceremony, clothed in black with umbrella's creating a perfect tent to stop the water over their heads. It was a graveside funeral with maybe ten people present. John could make out the figures of the two bouncers from the club, still thick with muscle under their suits. Most of the company were women, likely the other girls from the club and he recognized Wendi's startling hair poking out beneath her wide brimmed hat. There was a man there also, and John assumed him to be Max because Avery was standing beside him, holding an umbrella over both of them.

**"To heaven I lift my waiting eyes; There all my hopes are laid; The Lord that build the earth and skies, Is my perpetual aid."**

The sermon was read aloud, the priest only pausing when he was disrupted by the sound of their wet footsteps approaching on the grass. All eyes turned to them, though John and Sherlock faced Avery and Max, one of whom was frowning with mistrust. Avery quickly whispered something in Max's ear to ease whatever tension he felt with their arrival, and she shot them a brief smile as Colin and Brendan flanked them on either side with umbrella's to shelter them from the rain. Everyone turned their attention back to the service, but John could see Sherlock from the corner of his eye, more preoccupied with Avery and her boss rather than what sermon was being reciting. John was a little nonplussed too, but over different things than what Sherlock was likely deducing. Avery looked so different outside of her job, more feminine in fact. While she didn't don a posh frock like the other women, she came in black dress trousers and a blazer to match. Her lips were painted red and her eyes lined dark, fighting back grief so her make-up wouldn't run. It appeared that she was lost and reluctant in her own garb, drawing strength from the people around her. John thought she might have even been glad to see them judging from her expression when they had arrived, but she kept her grey eyes forward, the light fading once more.

**"Come to Me, all you who labour and are heavy lade, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, an you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light."**

As the sermon was carried on, John grew curious about Max, something no doubt Sherlock would share in. He was a surprise wrapped in a lead coloured trench coat with a walking stick balanced in his left palm. His hair was clipped short and was dark with burning flecks of red within if the light caught it just right. If John had to guess, he'd say he was about the same height as Sherlock, though not quite as trim as his flatmate. Then again, Max probably knew a proper meal when he saw one. He didn't have a trace of facial hair. Not that it would have suited with his expensive taste in clothing. The thing attracting the most attention, peeking from beneath the collar of his coat was a thin gold tie. What an odd choice for a funeral.

**"May the restless dead find sleep, and may the light of our remembering, guide them to an everlasting peace."**

The ceremony concluded as the casket was slowly lowered into the ground. Sherlock was growing anxious as the sound of tears and sniffling from the women grew to a new height. John was uncomfortable too, but only because his eyes kept searching out through the vast cemetery, remembering that familiar gravestone with his friend's name carved in the marble making him sick. His breathing turned heavy as he started to inhale greedily for air, his coat squeezing tighter in a vice-like grip around his body.

"John?" A cold hand was touching the side of his face, and he snapped out of his reverie to find it was now Avery holding an Umbrella over his head. Sherlock was beside her, all three of them sharing a space while everyone else were headed out from the service. It was Avery's long and steely fingers against his cheek, cold and damp from the rain and the nails still black. Her brow was furrowed into concern for him as was Sherlock's, though the consulting detective did a much better job of hiding the feeling quickly. "Are you alright?" She asked.

"Fine." His voice was scratchy. Okay, so maybe he wasn't doing all that well, and he was doing a poor job of convincing them of otherwise. "The service is over?"

"Yes." Avery replied, taking her hand away while she adjusted the umbrella over their heads, "Thank you both for coming, even if it was only to scope out my boss." She gave Sherlock a knowing look which he returned with a scowl.

"Hardly any scoping. Last name Renke, he's of German descent, but has lived in London for most of his life. Arrived in London as a child, and has not since considered leaving because of his financial success. Has never been married, but has a child, not a toddler though, I'd say age is between nine and twelve. Because of his unsavory business, the child is sent away to a private school, because it's safer and he can afford to. A son then. Your boss has not bothered to find a wife or companion for the sake of a daughter to have a female presence in its life, so the child is a son."

John had been forgotten for a moment as Avery had turned to listen to Sherlock, her eyes slightly widened in surprise, and she let her lips fall into a small smirk, "Wow. You have me impressed again Mr. Holmes."

"Do I have everything correct?"

"Nearly everything. Max was married shortly; he just never wore a ring."

Sherlock looked disgruntled, "There's always something."

"Either way, he would be impressed by that deduction, and suffice it to say I have been told to invite you to brunch this morning. You may decline of course, though it seems you have been searching for this meeting to happen."

"I don't eat while on a case." Sherlock said frankly.

"Then come for the conversation." Avery insisted rather pleasantly. John wondered if her boss had told her to be friendly, or if she was genuinely different outside of her work. She certainly felt like a breath of fresh air, and Lestrade has said something about her appearing skittish in the morgue, thus explaining her strange mood the first time they had been acquainted. "We both know you want to say yes, so why fight it?"

"I don't like to be told what to do." Sherlock spoke at length.

She nodded with a look of gentle understanding, "Nor do I Mr. Holmes, which is why I'm inviting you."

Sherlock looked back at John, finally making him a part of the debate again. It was morning brunch, a place with food, so he was more than willing to agree to go after an early outing in the rain. He hadn't even finished his toast before leaving. His loafers were starting to flood, and he either needed to get inside, or find himself a pair of wellies, "It might help with the case Sherlock."

Sherlock complied with an indifferent look, "Shall we take a cab then."

"You can ride there with us. It's only going to be me and Max with a guest he is meeting with." Avery explained as they started to follow after the funeral party leaving the cemetery. Each step was a relief for John, his body relaxing as he watched the employees of Vicarious going their separate ways. Wendi turned back to wave at him and Sherlock, John groaning while Sherlock pretended not to notice her. Avery let out a laugh at that, "She's been talking about you two nonstop."

"Charming." Sherlock deadpanned.

Max was standing on the pavement, another gentleman holding an umbrella over his head for him as they stood by the side of an expensive black car. He was clearly a privileged man, and it made John feel underdressed for wherever they were going for brunch. He became even more mortified when he realised the man standing beside Max was his chauffeur, "I'll be back in just a moment gentlemen." Avery spoke, handing off the umbrella to Sherlock whose height was more suited to hold it over both of them.

They watched as she ran through the rain—in a pair of tan plimsolls that added to her height—ducking in beside her boss as they exchanged words. Sherlock was frowning again, his head turned up to the sky as they stood in waiting, "Why does she call you by your name?"

"What?" John asked in bemusement.

"She called you John."

He had to think back for a moment before he could recall his daydreaming, and Avery being there to snap him out of it. She had called him John, "She did, didn't she?"

Sherlock huffed, "Flattery John?"

"Oh shut it. You're just jealous because I'm not a business transaction like you are." John said, using Avery's words from two nights ago.

"I don't get jealous John."

But by the annoyance marring his face, it seemed he was feeling something, "Could've fooled me." John whispered with a grin.

Avery was returning with her boss beside her, a discussion that was going to take place before they left anywhere in Max's impressive car it seemed. As he came closer, John got a better look of his face, and was quite startled by the severe look that was naturally occurring. It wasn't any wonder that he could handle himself in the nightclub business. While he might have dressed prim and proper, the loathsome look in his blue eyes was enough to make a grown man cower. Avery's stance around Max was also different: protective even, which must have been a part of her job as head of security. There was something else about Max though. His gait was uneven as he used his walking stick for support, not a fashion statement, and suddenly John understood why everyone else was holding the umbrella for him. Max had multiple sclerosis.

Max put on a false smile as he approached, it looking more like an unpleasant grin rather than sincere happiness. He held out his hand, first introducing himself to Sherlock, "It is good to finally meet you Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." He persisted, ignoring the wry smile on Avery's face at that request, "Saxony, German?"

Max made a gesture of acknowledgement, "Good ear Sherlock. Born in Dresden." There was a hint of an accent, but nothing that John could pick up on. He sounded well enough like an Englishman, but Sherlock would know the difference. "And you must be the Doctor?"

"John Watson, yes." John said, falling into a loose handshake while keeping eye contact that he was able to return after so many formal greetings in the military.

"It is my pleasure to meet you both. I am sorry if my absence has put you at an inconvenience, but I had other matters to attend to."

"A function for your son's school." Sherlock cut in.

Max looked taken aback, though he didn't let on about his surprise for long, "I see why Avery was singing your praises. We all wondered what had put a smile on her face." He made it sound as if that was a rare thing, for Avery to smile. She was looking apathetic again (embarrassed too), so maybe John understood what he was talking about, "I would very much like to allow for a conversation to commence so I may answer any questions you have. I suspect you have agreed to my invitation for brunch?"

"Yes, we'd love to join you." John agreed when Sherlock didn't respond.

"Wonderful." He said favorably while fixing his gold tie, his fingers fumbling oddly as if he couldn't feel them. He wasn't the kind of man you'd share your pity for, and his pride wouldn't allow for another man to do his job. That's why he had Avery. "We'll be on our way then."

They followed down the pavement to the car, the chauffeur opening the passenger side for Max to ride up front, leaving for the three of them to ride in the back. Avery ended up in the middle this time, though things weren't as stiff as they'd been in the cab. Without knowing their location, they headed off through the dreary rain. John wasn't sure if he should attempt conversation, luckily Avery made that decision for him, "I forgot to ask, how Lucy is?"

"She's fitting in well. Mrs. Hudson spoils her with milk. I fear she's already gained five pounds." John commented.

"I'm glad. She had needed a new home for a while now." Avery said, crossing her legs carefully, drawing John's attention to how long they looked in the tan coloured heels.

Sherlock didn't appear to be listening, his fingers drumming up a tune against his knee as he observed the interior of the luxury car, his look suspicious as he glanced out of the shaded windows, "Where are we going?"

"A gentlemen's club." Avery replied, her face turning towards his as she noted his unease that John had also been studying.

"And who are we meeting with?" He spat in irritation.

"A friend of mine, Sherlock." Max answered from the front, "I suspect you know him."

Avery pursed her lips as she ran a hand back through her short hair, "You figure things out much too quickly. We aren't even a third of the way there."

"It would have cut the travel time in half if your driver had taken that last turn on the left we passed." Sherlock jibed.

"Hold on, I'm confused. I still don't know who we are meeting with." John interjected with chagrin at being ignored with his presence in the back with them.

"Honestly John, if you haven't figured out where we're going by now, you never will." Sherlock exclaimed rudely, his face screwed up into a sneer.

"We're going to the Diogenes club, John." Avery added quietly.

John's eyes widened, "Wait, so we're meeting with—"

"Yes John." Sherlock interjected, "It seems Max's good friend is my very own brother."

There wasn't a long enough car ride in the world in which John would be prepared to sit down for morning brunch with Mycroft Holmes. Wouldn't be much of a brunch at all, more like tea, brandy and insults shared between the two brothers. John's stomach rumbled sadly in the muted silence of the car, he too now displeased that he'd been tricked into a series of horrible circumstances. It was only one in the afternoon, and already he wanted to go back home to Baker Street, opting for Sherlock to shoot holes in the wall rather than this forthcoming courtship of sibling rivalry. John didn't exactly want to see Mycroft either, but he could be civil for the sake of where they were going. Max hadn't done anything to them to earn their misgivings with the elder Holmes either, and it seemed Avery was attempting to smooth things over for them too, which was encouraging. He made a mental note to himself about later when he would go out to Tesco to pick up more nicotine patches for Sherlock. After a meeting with Mycroft, he'd have a three patch problem on his hands.


	5. This Taste

Driving to the Diogenes club to await a confrontation with his brother hadn't exactly been a part of his plan for the day, or any day for that matter. Not that he had any reason to feud with his portly sibling, Mycroft had after all, came through on assisting to take down Moriarty's criminal web for the last two years. What could his pencil pushing, desk jockey of a brother share in common with Max Renke of all people? Not a penchant to abide by the laws obviously, so they must run in the same social circle, driven by finical success and a sense of superiority. Would heavy discussions of politics and scandal ensue around the thick air of the Diogenes club? If so, how dull a morning he had to look forward too. He was quick to set such thoughts aside as he focused on the people sharing the space of the car.

John was looking thoroughly annoyed as time progressed. Was it the short notice of being lured into a visit with Mycroft, or the fact that he had had little food to digest before leaving? He quickly decided it was the matter of the visit. Just as Molly had known, Mycroft had also been in on the plan of his faked suicide, and his Doctor appeared disgruntled by those select few people. Sherlock felt he had little to offer in terms of words of comfort for John. Couldn't he just forget about that and move on already? Sherlock certainly had. Wasn't worth sulking over something that hadn't even happened, yet John hadn't let go. His reaction at the cemetery was evidence of that; even Avery had witness his flatmate in distress.

He took to watching her through the reflection in the shaded window. Odd one. He wanted to turn a blind eye to her, write her off as normal, ordinary, boring, and he supposed she could be those things, if only that she wasn't. Not quite. There was a certain quality that he felt himself in favour of observing. A similarity in their flaws to turn to narcotics. What could her reasons possibly be for that? He loved the sense of numb and quiet they brought to his mind, but that wasn't her Achilles heel. She was certainly no sociopathic genius. Clever maybe, and focused, but of a calibre that could be found almost anywhere. Why the need for escape? He found that many drug abusers were weak of moral fibre, but Avery didn't strike him as the type simply because of her personality, and her bizarre career to assist a diseased club owner. She didn't fuss in her seat, making no movements with her eyes tracked forward, breathing tuned to the muted silence in the car. A figure of reserved sentiment. She cared from afar, letting slip three times, only noticeable to him. First for her deceased co-worker, then for John at the cemetery and of course for Max. She was quite a contradictory, and that was interesting.

"We have arrived." Max announced pleasantly as he sat up in his seat.

John let out a conquered groan, "Couldn't I just stay in the car, watch over her, if you follow me?" He asked an underlying tone of pleading colouring his words.

"No need to be polite Doctor. That's what Stanley is here for." The driver nodded in acknowledgment as Max was so kind to point this out.

John begrudgingly accepted that there was no avoiding this visit and he popped opened the door of the car, letting himself out as Avery followed. Sherlock was the last to leave, something that never occurred when he would share a taxi with John. Such a waste to own a car in London. Their black cab was more than adequate to get you where you needed on time, and driving was such a tedious hassle that he wouldn't possibly waste his time on the effort.

Stanley the driver stayed by the car as the four of them assumed a small group towards the entrance. The Diogenes club was never a hive of activity, and only because the people who presided there where much like his brother. Not excitable in the least, sitting in Wedgewood wingback chairs, sipping Port or Cognac over long discussions on politics that they felt were so captivating. Sherlock was regretting being there after reminding himself of the displeasure that found him in that place, leaving him in a mood of derision all day. It ended up with Max and Avery leading the way with him and John falling behind them. The staff and other members of the club looked to Max with familiarity, that is, when they could tear themselves away from whatever had them occupied. A fair few games of cribbage had started, and so early in the morning that one would mistake them for having nothing better to do. Sherlock of course assumed that was the life of a politician.

It wasn't long before they found themselves walking towards a familiar figure, his corpulent brother (another failed diet it seemed) filling out the chair he was seated at before a round oak table between the seats. A Manchester table lamp was off to his right, and placed delicately against the wall was the tall umbrella he always wielded. Mycroft's assistant 'Anthea', or whatever name she went by those days, was beside him, face buried in her phone, long fingers mashing away at the keys while she altogether ignored the happenings in the room. An exultant smile came over Mycroft's face, not lasting long enough to make him appear pleasant, but the greeting was only spent on Max. He was still dreary in demeanor, composed in all black from the buttons on his waistcoat, to the laces of his shoes. One might mistake him of being the one to have just come from a funeral instead of his guests.

"It is good to see you again, Max." Mycroft greeted formally as he indicated for them to take a seat. He didn't so much as spare a greeting with Sherlock, not that there was much love lost between them.

"I agree." Max settled into his chair, leaning his walking stick up against the table beside him before Avery even thought to sit down. She waited for him to be to be settled before she brought herself down in the chair next to her boss, 'Anthea' on her other side. "You have been kept busy I hear." Max said respectfully.

"Fairly steady." Mycroft agreed, "And you are well I trust Miss Avery?"

She folded her hands neatly in her lap, intending to appear as polite, but falling short on the delivery, "Of course Mycroft."

Sherlock had watched her exchange with his brother curiously, before growing irritated that she knew him well enough as to be on a first name basis. He breathed through his nose, controlling the childish urge to want to snap at everyone present. He wouldn't be able to get any amount of thinking done in this place. It was so loud, he wanted everything to shut up and remain still until his permission was given to do otherwise. He didn't belong there, and he wanted to leave just as soon as he was able.

"I see you have made new friends." Mycroft continued, "I had hoped my brother would sign on to the case of your girl."

"As was I. He is as every bit as you described him to be." Max conversed.

Sherlock frowned as both he and John tried to meet Avery's fleeting gaze. So it was more than just John's blog. How much was known to Max and his head of security about them? His blatherskite of a brother was unaffected, his face placid as he listened to Max, "And brother, how have you been keeping?"

The attention had shifted to Sherlock much to his disappointment. "Out of trouble." He answered smartly, just to goad his brother.

"I'm sure Doctor Watson can give testament on whether or not that is true." Mycroft turned his sharp beak of a nose in the direction of his flatmate who had been content to sit overlooked until now, "I see you've decided on a moustache John."

"What of it?" John accused hotly, sensing a trap.

"I meant no offense. I am sure it has suited you well these past few weeks, and you look much more your age now."

John took the backhanded compliment in stride, smiling tightly, "Thank you. I suppose I should be in your debt for keeping up with Sherlock's death as well."

Mycroft was only mildly surprised by John's outburst, gazing at him with the minimal amount of wonder, "I thought we might come to this little snag. He has been alive now for two months John, which is more than enough time for you to have learned the truth to give you closure."

Sherlock sneered to himself, hating that he had just had this similar assessment in the car over to the club. This only seemed to cause his Doctor to unravel into a further mess of anger at Mycroft, "Give me closure? I thought he was dead, and to my face, you let me believe that for two years! All because of that psychopath and his obsession with Sherlock. I'm viable to throw my shoe at the next person I see wearing a Westwood suit."

John hadn't realized he had raised his voice, or that he was leaning forward over the table from his chair. His tiny fists of fury were clenched together over the egg shell coloured table cloth, looking like he wanted to leap at his brother's throat which amused Sherlock greatly. Mycroft calmly incurred John's wrath, even with the few onlookers they had attracted. 'Anthea', who had been sharing in quiet conversation with Avery, had even stopped with the business on her phone to listen intently.

"I couldn't agree more Doctor." Max interrupted the silence with a bland smile, "I had rid my wardrobe of Westwood, having lost my liking for the brand some time ago."

"You—" John stumbled on his words as he sat back down in his chair, "You knew Moriarty?" The name was said in a whisper, as if it had the power to summon the dead should it be uttered a decibel higher.

"Only briefly, and it was before anything had been heard about you Sherlock." Max said as he looked at him, "He went by something else at the time, not that it should be a surprise. He was the man with many names. He was interested in my club, or rather, as it for a place of business to sell narcotics with a client of his so long as I cut him a percentage of the profits. I declined for personal reasons."

"Out of respect for Miss Nash's past drug addiction to heroine." Sherlock couldn't help but interject. It was unsettling to find Max and Avery was acquainted to many of the people in his life, only to have never crossed paths with either of them until his recent case. It was like the feeling of being left out of the loop of a secret, and how he hated that.

The seats to which they occupied had fallen quiet, and he noticed how Avery had winced in her spot. No one was shocked by this revelation, except maybe John who was only aware of what he had informed him of two nights ago. His flatmate seemed interested in seeing her arms for track marks, which Sherlock knew there wouldn't be any found there.

"Might I be excused for a moment?" She asked for permission even though she was halfway raised out of her chair. Mycroft pulled her aside for a moment, whispering something in her ear to which she answered with a nod before leaving. She didn't look in anyone's direction as she left in a hurried pace through the club.

"Have I said something wrong?" He asked, turning to John with a furrowed brow.

"Oh Sherlock, a bit not good." John replied with a sigh.

"Hardly the time of day for that discussion Sherlock." Mycroft chirped snidely.

"Oh do shut up." Was the answered he received.

"It's strange to see you look down on someone over this." Mycroft continued, well aware that his brother looked down on most people for being as simple as normal, "I remember having to drag you from clinic to clinic, hair in disarray, covered in filth with clothes stained in sickness from the many times you were found on the floor of the loo. Poor mummy never did quite get over that."

John was visibly anxious to be present as Mycroft spewed details of his past addiction. It was really the only thing Sherlock never shared with anyone, not even John. The reminder of those times grounded him, tethering him to the earth a bit better where he felt so human. So normal. "Only because she saw me as her failure."

"Oh come off it Sherlock, not everything is about you. She felt that she failed you because she loved you, not your misguided thoughts on her apparent material reasons." Mycroft retorted indifferently, "You've put me off of my afternoon brandy."

"She'll get over it. Let's not make mountains out of molehills." Max remarked, acting as mediator before Sherlock had the chance to open up into another disagreement with his brother, "Avery's hard, not broken." And as Sherlock would come to learn later, that sentence was perfectly apt to describe her.

Mycroft and Max started in on another conversation, about a benefit or gala that Max apparently gave money to every year, the previous grievances of the table forgotten. So they both ran in the same social circle, at least, outside of their work, as he first assumed. Sherlock was growing bored to just sit there and waste away on weak tea that was served to them. The atmosphere was tarnished, and he didn't want to share the same breathing air as his brother. He hastily rose from his seat, ignoring the questioning look John had tossed him as he made his exit from the room of the Diogenes club. He wouldn't apologize to her, he just wanted fresh air. Any excuse to leave the sorry morning he had to share with Mycroft. The scent of leather and liquor followed him outside of the club, and he didn't have to spend meager time on searching out Avery. Her back was up against the wall of the building, a cigarette placed between her fingers as she stood with one leg crossed over the other, "That only took you six minutes and twenty-three seconds." She said without looking at him.

"I'm not going to apologize." He frowned as a little white wisp of smoke found its way over to him, dancing around his nose before slipping away, lost to the wind. He had no patches, and he was quite enticed by the scent, imagining the taste of tar in his mouth from just one drag.

"I'm glad, or else my image of you would be blown." She pushed off of the wall, taking notice of how his eyes followed the cigarette in her hand, "Your brother was right to warn me."

He let out an annoyed scoff. So that's what Mycroft had whispered to her; no cigarettes for him. We'll see about that. He was feeling rebellious after that little spat, "He is never right intentionally, I assure you."

Avery hummed her answer, "You're quite alike, you and him."

"We are nothing alike." He refuted.

She didn't reply to that, "When did you last quit smoking."

"Nine days ago." He didn't falter as he recalled his last secret cigarette hidden from John.

She sighed as she dug out a pack, putting a second cigarette into her mouth as she fired it off with her lighter. Her hand waved, offering it before him with her raised brow as she waited for him to take it, "I don't feel guilty giving this to you because you suck at quitting almost as bad as I do." She explained.

Now who could argue with that logic? Certainly not him at the moment when she offered it up to him freely. He took the fag from her hand, not feeling quite as shameful as he should when it touched his lips, and he felt the tension leave his body. She forced a small smile as she returned to her half-finished one, them standing happily in shared silence. As the smoke filled his lungs, he realized there was another taste on his tongue. The Earl Greyer black tea Avery has been sipping. Also, a line of her red lipstick was left behind on the brim of the filter from where she had placed it between her lips. Maybe because his body had been yearning for a smoke was why he didn't care about these details, and he easily brought it up back to his lips again for another drag.

"What gave me away about my addiction?" She asked pointedly.

"Do you ask because you have no visible track marks on your arms to identify you as a previous user, or because you are ashamed to let the past define you?"

"I don't let it define me." She said indignantly before adding as an afterthought, "But I am careful to hide it."

"You don't drink either."

"No. I take sobriety very seriously."

"And your injection sites aren't somewhere visible. Somewhere on your thighs, between the toes, or the corners of your eyes?"

He expected her to snap at him, but he was rewarded with mostly no reaction at all save for the sagging of her shoulders, "It's amazing how you can still find the time to try and be vain as an addict, even when you're in too much of a stupor from a fix for it to matter. I guess you could say I also didn't want to get caught, even when the other signs were obvious."

Hiding because of guilt and sentiment. Besides Mycroft sticking his nose into his business, his time of addiction had been on his own terms with no one to watch him fall, and he hadn't worried over such petty things. Even if his family had been more actively involved, it likely would not have changed anything for him, "You were around your family, but they were also a reason for your addiction."

"It was a long time ago." She said brusquely as she finished her cigarette, stepping on the butt with the toe of her plimsoll. "Maybe that will be my last one ever."

Likely not. How many times had he also told himself that exact same thing, even when he had been an avid chain-smoker? He watched her around the smoke plumes trailing from the end of his cigarette. She had her arms wrapped around herself, the air still damp and cold after the morning rain. Her eyes remained forward, not looking at much of anything, but not ignoring him either. She didn't force conversation which others probably mistook for a rude trait, but why blither on about nonsense when there was nothing left to be said? He hadn't finished his say however, and it looked like he would have to break his own silence this time, "What did you think of him?"

"Of James Moriarty?" She broke out of her reverie to face him, "An off-putting narcissist, possible metrosexual, and a child to deal with. He didn't like me, which he made known on several occasions in the few incidences we were forced in the same vicinity. As I recall, he made comments about how I was either voluntarily attempting to be a man, or a lesbian because of my haircut, but I know he was just being an obnoxious prick." But the words had bothered her, because she unconsciously ran her nails through her yellow locks. "The world is better without him."

He agreed, carefully stowing away her words in his mind palace for further consideration. Moriarty didn't hate out of habit, nor did he love anything. Sherlock had found that the man's interactions with people were hot and cold. Avery wasn't being completely honest, which he anticipated, but he was vexed that he couldn't see through to the truth. His eyes tried to pull anything off of her, and just when he thought to pause in his observing, he noticed one small detail. A minute thing, barely there or important to anyone who would look her way, but to him, it might as well have been screaming to the heavens. A thin silver chain was around her neck, tucked into the top of her blouse so that whatever pendant or object that was at the end was concealed. He might have made a reach if it wouldn't have appeared indecent to do so. John's voice was in his head, something about thinking through and resisting his unsavory actions before he went through with them. He supposed grabbing at a lady's chest to whom he was only acquainted with was one of those things, not that he understood why.

Thinking of his flatmate, he was suddenly approaching them through the doors, and Sherlock was quick to snuff out the rest of his cigarette beneath his shoe before John could notice, "Thank you very much for leaving me up there with them!" He bit out at the two of them.

Avery seemed to find John's little spastic fits amusing for some reason, her lip curling up at the corner, resisting a smile, "I'm sorry John. I forget how long and terrible these meetings can be."

"I won't make that mistake again." He replied sourly, "And you, don't you answer your phone? Lestrade was trying to reach you, but he had to call me instead. Another body has been found."

Having been distracted by the smoking and conversation with Avery, he hadn't felt it go off in his pocket. He grew excited as his eyes skimmed over the details of the texts (as well as the angry, bolded ones) Lestrade had sent him. His boredom had come to a swift end. Another body, how stimulating!, "We are leaving." They'd have to go by cab this time, much more to his preference.

"Are you coming Avery?" John asked before he even immediately started to follow him.

She shook her head, her eyes smiling for her, "No, I can't leave Max whenever he is out in the city alone. If you are at your flat before dark, I might be able to come see you for that tea you promised me before work."

"I have your number." John replied, looking less displeased than he had before as he traveled down the pavement after Sherlock.

"Thank you again for coming to the funeral. Goodbye John. Mr. Holmes." She formally bid farewell before she disappeared back into the Diogenes club.

Sherlock grimaced with his back to the building at once again having heard the use of his last name. He would have to change that occurrence from repeating. Drove him mad to be called as such. John didn't hide his cheeky grin well either as he strode up beside him, waiting for a hailed cab for them, "So you apologized then?"

Sherlock let out a disdainful huff, "Honestly John, it's as if you don't know me by now." He said as he flew into the car that had stopped for them at the edge of the pavement. He gave out the directions from Lestrade to the driver as John settled in beside him.

"I think I know you enough to know when you're trying to hide something." He inhaled the air of the cab as they started into traffic. Sherlock started to tap his fingers against his knee, expecting John's next question, "Did you smoke?"

"Only one." He insisted.

John might have been annoyed if it wasn't for his curiosity being piqued, "Is she going to be a bad habit for you?"

"I have been told that my life is one bad habit." He supplied offhandedly, "I suppose I owe you an apology John."

"Really?" His flatmate inquired suspiciously.

"Yes, when I said your efforts in attempt to date her were wasted because of your differences. It would appear you were already too late. She was in love with someone else."

John's face fell slightly, and Sherlock knew it didn't have anything to do with Avery. He had been hoping for an apology for everything else. The fall, the suicide, the last two years wasted. Sherlock wouldn't say he was sorry. He couldn't. He had done so out of necessity, no deed was ever wasteful in his life, and John should have suspected as such from his death as well, even if he had been alive and…keeping. He felt no regrets, not when he thought of John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, their lives in the balance because of his. Still his Doctor continued to let the little black cloud of the past follow them around.

Straightening his face and forcing a brave smile, John returned to topic, "You said was. Do you have any idea who with?"

It was then that came the words he hated to admit to. They turned into poison and ash on his tongue, thick and dry as it stuck to the roof of his mouth. He halted, blinking once, and then again as his lips tried to form the short sentence into the air of the cab. With some strain and a hard voice he answered, "I don't know."


	6. Luck & Jazz

John got over his hunger and annoyance pretty quickly in the cab ride over to the crime scene. Had he been anticipating an apology after these last two months? Yes, and he was under the impression that Sherlock had known that, as he did with anything John was feeling. Distractions took over, and all of that was pushed aside once again in favour of another murder, as well as the mystery of the head of security for Vicarious. He didn't feel it was any of their business about who she might or might not have been in love with, though once Sherlock had pointed this fact out, he was filled with curiosity to know. Hopefully that didn't come off as intrusive on his part and it wasn't as if he made a habit of sticking his nose into other's private matters, past or present. It was either an odd coincidence that Max had had dealings with Moriarty in the past, or something larger was at play, shrinking their world in around them.

Of course, after that terrible morning with Mycroft, it felt like they were trapped in a box. He could forgive Sherlock succumbing to nicotine cravings just this once, not wanting to badger him about that when his brother had started in about his drug addiction at the table. Refusing to be embarrassed, John had listened with a critical ear, never adding his two cents or joining in the discussion. His mind had made up an understanding a long time ago about Sherlock's past of dabbling into narcotics. Living with his friend, he figured it had to be a burden on Sherlock at least sometimes that his mind couldn't settle down just for a moment for him to feel like everyone else. A younger Sherlock had turned to drugs, but this wasn't the consulting detective John knew, and had come to love as his best friend. It was a grey area of his past, an experience, and he must have taken something from it. John had Harry in his life, a bloody alcoholic, and if he could handle that, than he certainly didn't feel the need to remind Sherlock of his addiction.

Their day only continued to grow worse though. After stepping out of the cab at a rather odd strip of town John was unfamiliar with, they met up with Lestrade and the forensics team who was already present on scene. Sherlock was rarely upset over anything, but when they came to the body, something was amiss over his reserved reaction that John was able to notice. Lestrade had said that the woman was homeless. A part of Sherlock's Homeless network then. It was bizarre to watch Sherlock quietly go through the motions of feeling. He experienced regret, hostility and acceptance in the span of a few seconds before it was down to business. Still, John realized his anger had receded beneath the indifferent surface as he deduced the scene critically. His answers were a little more clipped with everyone, and even Anderson had the sense to not disturb him in anyway. Actually, since Sherlock's return, Anderson had been acting a little differently. John had found him staring at the consulting detective a lot; in silent awe he thought it was which seemed totally asinine, and a tiny bit funny.

No one would come to claim the woman's body at the morgue, that was obvious to everyone, but they went through the gestures moving her there after Sherlock had surveyed the scene, deducing everything there was, which hadn't been much. From the pictures they had seen of Taylor's corpse in the alley behind her flat, the murder was rather similar. Drugged again, no signs of any other injuries sustained aside from the strangulation marks on her neck. Eyes taken. John was hoping for Molly to have some good news about the toxicology report, something to at least preoccupy Sherlock a little longer as they waited for any slip up. Though he would never admit to anything, John knew Sherlock cared about humanity, even if he thought the lot of them were dull and incompetent. He wouldn't have chosen this line of work otherwise, and the people of his Homeless network were innocent, so willing to help him in the same way John was. When something like that was threatened, Sherlock felt responsible.

"Why again so soon?" Sherlock asked aloud in the cab as they followed back to Scotland Yard.

John was never sure when his flatmate was actually asking him something, or merely speaking his unintelligible thoughts into the open, "Pardon?" He asked on the assumption that his raised voice had been used for the purpose of being heard.

"Get the fluff out of your ears John and pay attention. The gap between the last murders was but a few days, which wasn't so with the other three victims. What is his obsessive collecting of human eyes for?"

Out of all the questions, it seemed so odd to hear it come from Sherlock's mouth after the experiments he had executed in their flat, "Maybe he's putting them in the microwave." John put smartly.

"Sarcasm John, at a time like this?"

"I am sorry." John added heartily with a small chuckle, "But after all of the organs you have put me through in the last few years, it just was funny to me that it is the first question you'd ask."

Apparently the humor was lost on Sherlock's part, who merely frowned shortly until getting out of the cab as it stopped outside of the building. With a sigh, John tossed the cabbie the money and was hot on Sherlock's trail into the Yard. After going to the scene, John didn't rightfully know what they were doing there. There were no other leads, and Molly hadn't yet texted with any information coming in from the report. The day was losing light as winter would set in on them soon, and John wanted to get home at a decent hour for once, to maybe eat at a normal supper time (all he had managed to scrounge up was a small bag of dry crisps and a cup of water). Takeaway was looking like a strong possibility, though he always seemed to have deep cravings for the Chinese restaurant to which they were frequent visitors.

He followed the tail of Sherlock's coat; the last place it turned into was Lestrade's office. He wondered if Greg was even aware they had followed after him here. Surely the Yard had other cases besides this one that needed attending, and fitting in Sherlock's demands on top of that would be taxing for the Detective Inspector, "Sherlock!" John called as he panted after his friend into Lestrade's office. It would appear they had already started without him.

"Hello John, nice to see you again, and so quickly." Greg shot Sherlock an annoyed look, "I really don't have time for this Sherlock. Right now I've got ninety-nine problems, and you're my biggest one."

"I highly doubt that, considering your divorce, and the monthly fees you are worrying about that are past-due in your new flat."

"Sherlock." John scolded, giving Greg an apologetic look which the man brushed aside with a scowl. John turned to Sherlock, his patience ebbing away, "If you get what you came here for, can we clear out right away?"

Sherlock blinked for a moment, unresponsive before he turned to Lestrade, "Yes."

Lestrade knew when he was defeated, but had enough grace to not look entirely put-out, "What do you need? I don't think there is anything more I can give you on this case that you don't already know."

"I want a file pulled on Avery Nash."

If it was possible, Lestrade's eyes grew almost as big as John's, "The head of security for Vicarious? You can't honestly think it was her."

John was about to accuse the same thing at Sherlock, but the consulting detective seemed appalled by Lestrade's remark, "What dim-witted creatures I surround myself with." He said dramatically.

"Oh alright I get it, I was wrong, but I can't just pull a file without reason, and I can't be handing out someone's personal record just because you want it." Lestrade refuted. "Unless of course, it pertains to the case in some form?"

"Of course." Sherlock lied without breaking his stoic countenance, "I'll settle for copies."

Lestrade pretended to toy with the idea in his head, but already he was caught in the belief that Sherlock might actually need those papers for the case, and it was enough to placate him as he stood from his chair, "Wait here a moment."

John's eyes followed his feet out the door before he turned to his flatmate with a frown, "What are you playing at Sherlock?"

"Avery is a liar John." He stated simply, "A talented liar because of her career path, and I don't have nearly the amount of time I would like to sort through her, so her file will have to suffice until this case is finished."

"What on Earth could she be lying about? I think you're getting twisted out of form over nothing. It's not unusual for a woman to have a past she wants to hide from, you know?" John waved his hand off in the air, thinking better of expanding on that thought, "Oh forget it. You aren't going to listen to me. I can see you've made your mind up about this."

"Good, we are in agreement then." Sherlock nodded once in dismissal.

"No we bloody are not!"

"John, I would suggest you seek female company to rid yourself of stress. You are awfully ornery as of late, and it makes you quite unhelpful considering the state of things."

John was about to retort if it hadn't have been for Lestrade's poor timing on return. He thrust a packet of papers into Sherlock's awaiting hands as he went by back to his desk, "Don't tell anyone where you got that file from, and return them once you're done, or better yet burn them. They're only copies."

"Right then." Sherlock said without thanks, "Shall we leave?"

John didn't know whether to laugh at Sherlock for being so obtuse, or to slap him, a conflicting feeling he often felt torn about when Sherlock was deep in his work. He shrugged with a half-smile and added, "We're having a guest for tea soon, and I don't want to keep her waiting. Good day, Greg." John said his goodbyes while Sherlock merely left the room without a word.

They passed Donavan on their way through the halls of the Yard, her stopping to turn and give them a curious and somewhat sour look before she kept on walking. People still weren't quite sure what they were seeing as Sherlock and John cruised through the corridors, or blazed through a crime scene. Double-takes were something they had grown accustomed too now, though sometimes John also had to take a look beside him and remind himself this was real, that his friend truly was alive and well. "Must you go through on these ridiculous plans for tea with her?"

"So it's back to  _'her'_  is it? A moment ago you were calling her Avery." John goaded.

"Really? A simple slip of the tongue I suppose." He said brusquely.

John huffed, "Well whatever the reason, you were the one who said I should find some female company, and I'm following that advice. Besides, you said you didn't have time to sort through whatever she may or may not be lying about, so keeping her close is a good idea. I might even be helping you."

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like disbelief. Hell, John wasn't even sure he believed all of that, but sometimes he liked to be seen as useful in the eyes of the consulting detective. It was nice to be needed. There wasn't much for him to blog about these days, not with the media hanging about on Sherlock's every move since he'd become London's latest social pariah. Not that he hadn't always been, but he'd upgraded to a much higher scale now. John wouldn't quit completely though, and he'd already done two new entries since Sherlock's return, one for each month. Once they closed this case, he'd be sure to write a good long entry, with a creative title and everything. Maybe with her permission, he'd include Avery's name as well.

They got into a cab, heading for Baker Street. John kept checking his phone while Sherlock's thoughts were still heavily involved in the case, and the body of one of his own. A deep frown had set in on his ivory face, and John wondered if he'd be hearing any dismal tones coming from the violin tonight, a likely possibility when Sherlock was in a mood. Short on time, he also realized he would miss the chance to go to the shop to pick up any staple foods they were short on, as well as any patches for Sherlock. If things got too unbearable, he supposed he'd have to cave under pressure and let Sherlock have one more cigarette from Avery if it would keep his insensitive remarks from elevating. Guilt washed over him at the thought, causing him to feel like an unsupportive friend and a bad doctor.

The familiar sights of home came into view, and John was relieved as they stopped in front of Baker Street, more than ready to go up to the flat and a change out of his funeral attire. He was following at Sherlock's side, nearly causing a commotion at the door when Mrs. Hudson stepped outside in her hat and coat, her face the definition of surprise, "Oh dear me." She gasped.

Sherlock steadied her with one hand, offering up an apology from both of them as he tucked the file safely under his other arm, while John had been quick to catch her handbag, "Going out Mrs. Hudson?" He asked while handing her back her bag.

"Just a quick trip. Coffee with a lady friend." She explained cheerfully, "And are you two in for the night now?"

"Yes—"

"Uncertain—"

Him and Sherlock answered at the same time, though John supposed his friend gave the better answer. He could be dragged out at any hour for a case, so a definitive yes was a poor choice of assumption. With his face flushed pink, John cleared his throat, "Well, maybe not. We're having a guest over for tea." He explained again for the second time.

"Oh how lovely." She gushed, "Would you like me to pick out anything for dessert for you and your guest?"

"No Mrs. Hudson, you go and have your fun. I'm sure Avery won't be staying long." Sherlock dismissed with a quick peck to her cheek before heading off upstairs.

John forced a smile and said his farewell, wishing their landlady a goodnight before following up the seventeen steps to their flat. He went through the opened door, Sherlock's coat and scarf already abandoned as he sat in his chair, papers up to his face as he tore through Avery's personal file. While staring at him, all John could think about was how the devil was he supposed to get through this visit without appearing guilty? He shed his outside clothes before trudging up to his room to change. Deciding on a forest green jumper while putting away his black clothing in the laundry basket for a wash, he finished tidying as he stopped to look in his mirror. He didn't want to think Mycroft Holmes had gotten to him, but maybe the moustache was a bad idea. He didn't look that old after all, and his initial thought had been it gave him character. There wasn't time for shaving now (or for insecurities), and he sent a quick text to Avery to confirm when she'd be coming by before he went back down to join Sherlock.

Lucy had made her way up to them at an unnoticed time, watching Sherlock in his chair from the arm of the couch. His face was set into a deep frown before he unexpectedly threw the file up in the air, scattering papers everywhere on the furniture and floor. Lucy hissed as she jumped down, hiding from the falling sheets as Sherlock stood fiercely, "Boring. Useless." He declared in irritation.

"So I see, but was that anyway to react?" John said grumpily as he bent down to retrieve the papers off the floor.

"There was nothing there! Minor details about a breaking and entering, and criminal possession from over ten years ago. Dull! Much too clean a record for someone like her, and has likely been scrubbed because of the company she keeps."

"Maybe you should ask Mycroft." John suggested, hiding his smirk when his back was turned from Sherlock as he continued to put the file back together.

"Don't be cute John." Sherlock deadpanned as he stopped in his tracks at the window, peering through the side of the drapes to outside, "I suggest you pick up your pace, because she's stepping out of a cab."

"Already?!" John cried as he ushering the rest of the papers unevenly into the folder, rushing towards Sherlock's bedroom door as he flung the file unceremoniously on to the bed. The explosion of papers could be heard again before John snapped the door shut with a breath.

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock asked calmly as he sat back down in his chair.

"I like to keep a clean flat…when I can." He added, "I'll just go invite her in then."

Sherlock hummed his response as he stared off to the side at Lucy, slowly making her way out from the table. John left the door opened as he took down the stairs one at a time, arriving at the front door just as Avery knocked firmly from outside. Not wanting to seem desperate, he gave it a moment before answering, while fixing his dishevelled clothing from his frantic cleaning of Sherlock's mess. Who was he kidding? This was going to end in disaster. The afternoon had been evidence enough of that. He took in a deep breath, plastering on a fake smile before he opened the door, "Hello." He greeted with false cheer.

Avery pulled a little tighter at her coat as she smiled through the doorway at him, "Hi. I'm sorry if I'm a little late, and that I'm not exactly dressed in date attire. I'm a little pressed for time." She gestured to her work clothes underneath her jacket as she stepped into the hallway of Baker Street, John closing the door behind her.

"No trouble. I'm not really sure if it is a date anyways." He rubbed the back of his neck bashfully while Avery seemed to visibly relax that nothing was expected of her, "Oh er—guess we should go upstairs then. Normally our landlady would have opened the door to let you in, but she's away tonight."

"Landlady? Sounds more like a housekeeper if you ask me." Avery laughed, attempting to make the situation seem less awkward than it obviously was, and for both of them.

"She makes a point to remind us of that fact often." John agreed as they reached the top of the stairs. For a moment he was tempted to pull Avery back to safety and lock her outside before this visit could commence, but instead he allowed her to enter first, appearing completely respectful as he fought down the urge.

"Hello Lucy." The cat had abandoned Sherlock to come greet her at the door, rubbing up against the black trousers, leaving little white hairs behind, "I thought she was a gift for your landlady?" Avery picked the cat up off the floor despite her allergies as her eyes took in the area of the flat. Sherlock was right where John had left him, apparently off somewhere in his mind palace, too preoccupied to care about their visitor.

"She is, but she finds her way up here sometimes. I think she likes Sherlock." John remarked teasingly, "All we have is Earl Grey, I hope that's alright."

"That's perfect. I like—"

"One sugar, no milk." Sherlock interrupted.

Both pairs of eyes surfaced to Sherlock who was now alert to the happenings of the room. Avery let a small smile bled on to her face, "That's undoubtedly correct."

John cleared his throat, nervously glancing between Avery and his flatmate, "Right, I'll start the kettle." He shot Sherlock one last pleading look, to not start anything now during a civil visit, if it could be anything of the sort. The success or failure depended on Sherlock.

So far, Avery hadn't said much of anything in terms of the condition of their flat. Her eyes had found the skull once, regarding it without much emotion, and then traveled to the violin. One would suspect she would ask Sherlock if he played, but she turned away from it too, now looking down at Lucy on her lap as the cat acted as a tether connecting them, staring at Sherlock with beady black eyes while Avery's fingers ran through the long hair. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, but in deep thought or anger was difficult to decipher. Not wanting to come off as rude in his home, she offered to speak first, "I find it difficult to believe you have nothing to say, Mr. Holmes."

"You played the alto saxophone in the past."

Her brows furrowed slightly, "How did you know that?"

"It is obvious by your hands that you used to be in practice with an instrument. Nothing with strings as there is barely any callus on the tips of your fingers. Long, narrow, but you don't strike me as one with patience to play piano, or a woodwind instrument. Jazz music is your preference, and you often lean forward in a hunch, your body recalling having to favour the weight of the instrument."

"Nothing slips past you." She was only slightly impressed as she shook her head in disbelief. "I don't play anymore though."

"Why not?" John popped his head back in, making it apparent he had been eavesdropping.

Avery looked thoughtful as she considered this, "Because I don't need to."

"No one needs to play music." Sherlock cut in, "You stopped because you were dejected, someone in your life considering it a waste of your time. Tragic that you would allow such stupidity to sway you."

"I agree with you." John nearly spilt his tea as he set a cup down before her on the table. Sherlock appeared more engaged as well, shifting in his chair just the slightest as he studied her on the couch. Really, John was surprised he hadn't thrown up a fuss about her sitting there. Sherlock could be quite possessive over the furniture.

"You agree. Which part in particular spoke to you?" He challenged.

"That I allowed myself to be swayed by someone else. This might surprise you, but I wasn't always the way I am now."

Sherlock provoked her further, "Abrasive?"

"Oh dear God." John muttered behind the lip of his cup at Sherlock's outburst.

Avery looked stunned for a moment before she laughed pleasantly, "Just with you Mr. Holmes."

"So it would seem." He said without emotion.

"What were you like before?" John interrupted as he adjusted his position on the couch. Sitting beside her, he was embarrassed to find she was still visibly taller than him.

"Naïve."

"Oh, everyone is allowed that when they're young."

"Yes, but not everyone is weak enough to do the things I did. I think I suffered from an extreme case of naivety." There was a pregnant pause in which she leaned over the table for her tea, causing Lucy to jump down from the unexpected movement. Lucy took John's chair, it being the closest thing for her to stare openly at Sherlock as he continued to observe Avery, "How is your case going?"

"Not well. There was another body found. The incident similar to Ms. Greenly's." John explained quietly. "She was homeless."

Avery frowned, distressed by the news, and even angered. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Your sentiment contributes nothing." Sherlock said with an eye roll.

"I suppose it doesn't, but then what are a few kind words shared between friends going to hurt?" She took a sip of her tea, waiting for Sherlock's response just as John was.

"We are not friends."

"No?" She asked, feigning surprise, "But it seems unfair you know so much about me without having to try to earn it."

"Redundant." He said indifferently, "I presume it is expected for friends to call each other by first name." Sherlock smirked slightly in triumph.

"Oh honestly, you're still on about that?" Avery said, brushing her fringe out of her eyes, "Nice attempt that was, Mr. Holmes."

He scowled again, "Then your only friend here is John, though I confess that will disappoint him. The efforts he's put forth to impress you are staggering."

John choked on the hot sip of tea he had just swallowed, sputtering to form an answer, "It's nothing! Truthfully, I think I've just found myself to be on the wrong side of forty lately. Still no assets, or wife, or kids."

"Dull." Sherlock said, a hint of disgust in his tone.

"It isn't dull." John objected as he picked up his empty china cup, heading to the kitchen in a mood to refill his tea from the kettle on the hob.

There was a moment's pause in muted silence between her and Sherlock. The only sounds made came from John in the other room passed the sliding doors. Avery uncrossed her legs, bringing her foot down as it caught on something on the floor, sticking to the toe of her shoe as it scuffed against the wood. Her curiosity led her to lean over and pick the item up off the floor, Sherlock containing a wince at what it was, "Oh dear, it appears you missed one John." He called.

"Missed what?" John asked as he reappeared, only to stare in horror at what Avery was holding in her hand. A blank look had taken over her face as her eyes searched over the offending item, "That's not what it looks like." He attempted to feebly pacify her.

"I think it's exactly what it looks like John." She refuted, "You have been doing some light reading on me I see." She accused as she looked over the sheet from her file.

One blasted piece of paper! And things had been going so well too. They'd had their tea without her having to witness any of the body parts in their fridge, nor did she ask for a tour when John had been willing to offer if she had. Even she and Sherlock had managed to speak some more without her telling him to 'piss off' at any given time for his deductions. John was frustrated at himself for missing that one sheet of paper, and he was upset with Sherlock for having brought that file into their flat in the first place.

"Hardly anything to get upset over. There wasn't anything of interest there for me." Sherlock said carelessly.

What John expected to be an outburst of emotions, turned out quite differently from Avery, "Oh I know. You got these from the Yard then?"

Sherlock trained his eyes on her, a knowing look on his face as his deduction of her record being too clean was proven correct, "What else have you done Ms. Nash?"

"I'm sure you'll find that out eventually. After all, you are so good at what you do Sherlock." She smirked slightly as she stood; leaving Sherlock stupefied as she went, "Thank you for the tea John, but I should be leaving now."

John stood with his mouth agape, cup and saucer still in his hand as he leaned against the doorjamb to the kitchen, "Oh…right. Do you need me to walk you out?"

"I know my way. Don't worry about me." She said softly as she went to leave, "Thank you for the tea, and good luck with your case."

Sherlock scoffed as he collected himself, "There is no such thing as luck."

She paused with her back turned, head tilted as she considered his words, "I'd like the chance to prove you wrong someday."

She certainly knew when to make an exit. John stood still for a long time after they had listened to her feet traveling down the stairs and out the door, the wood sticking after swelling from the rain they'd had that morning. Sherlock had flown out of his chair to the window, quicker than the movements of Lucy, vexation ever present on his face as he spied Avery departing in a cab into the dark of the evening. The tables had turned, and now the consulting detective looked put-out that she had left so soon.

"I think we've managed to scare her off." John said finally, breaking the silence.

"No." His flatmate replied with certainty, "It would take more than that to scare her off. We have her now John, she's not going anywhere."

Always so confident, John thought wryly as picked up the piece of paper she had left behind. He hated to admit it, but he was slowly starting to fall under curiosity, the same as Sherlock. What did Avery and Max have in common with James Moriarty besides a dodgy business? Music broke through John's quiet thoughts, and he looked up to see Sherlock's back as he played something soft on the strings of his violin, "She wasn't wearing the necklace."

"What?" John asked in bemusement.

"The necklace. There was a chain around her neck she wore to the funeral. She must have noticed I had seen it before. I doubt we'll be seeing the likes of it again."

"Or she doesn't wear it to her job." John pointed out. "Or she took it off and forgot to put it back on. Either way, what are you suggesting?"

"The significance John. What does it mean?"

"It's not unusual for a man to give a woman a necklace."

Sherlock's screeched his note from the bow on his violin as he paused to think, "Interesting you should say that John."

"Well, you did mention something about her being in love once. I just assumed."

"The right assumption. I believe you are learning." Sherlock said as his phone pinged into the quiet of the room. John smiled at the half compliment, cherishing the moment before it was gone. The violin had been set down as Sherlock looked at his phone, a small gleam in his eye as he read over the text, "Fancy a trip to St. Bart's?"

Finally, the toxicology report was in. It looked like Chinese takeaway would have to wait as Sherlock started for his coat and scarf, the night calling them once again. John stood off of the couch with a sigh, but smiled to himself as he shrugged. It looked like he would be on the wrong side of forty for a little bit longer. "Oh, why not?!"


	7. Utilitarian Woman

The days had progressed into the next week. Utter silence continued from the case since the toxicology report had come back from Molly, leaving Sherlock to mull over another degree to the murders. He had started with seven theories and was down to just three after what the reports had exposed in a significant detail. The drug in the prostitutes system, and likely through the homeless victim (while they waited for that report) was Diprivan. Also known as propofol, a hypnotic or anaesthetic drug given through an intravenous. Surprising it was a rather weak drug, more used in small procedures in the medical field to obtain partial or complete unconsciousness for a brief period of time, also reducing sensitivity to pain. John referred to it as  _conscious sedation_. The women only had to be unconscious long enough for the killer to asphyxiate his victims, and surely as he observed the fourth victim over at the morgue in St. Bart's, a small needle mark was visible in the skin of her arm.

There was something he was missing, and on the quiet Thursday morning as he stood before the window in his dressing gown, he continued to screech off notes from his violin, not playing a tune of anything except perhaps his frustration over the lack of stimuli for this case. When something happened, his excitement rose to unnatural heights, but there was a slope to this case, and the serial killer appeared to have no pattern for his kills besides the larceny of eyeballs. A mistake would happen soon, and he'd be the first to spot it.

Shoes coming down the stairs alerted him to John on the move in the flat, though he didn't bother to turn around or cease in his playing, "Alright, I'm off." John said, the rustling of his coat sleeves indicating he was going outdoors.

"To where?" Sherlock bemused in disinterest.

An indignant sigh blew out from John's lips. Annoyance, and so early in the morning, "To work Sherlock, that place I go to so we make rent. Also, someone has to keep milk in the house."

"We have milk." He argued offhandedly.

"Fresh milk. Not whatever that gloop is in the fridge." A jingle of keys could be heard while John tied his scarf tightly around his neck and chin, "Are you actually going to get dressed today?"

"Irrelevant." He finally stopped with the violin, setting it aside as he flopped down in his chair. Lucy wasn't even present to hold his interest, which meant his mind turned to cigarettes, and that always managed to remind him of Avery whom hadn't resumed contact with them since her visit. He would be sorely disappointed if John was correct in his scaring her off so easily. That gave him an idea, "Call in sick today. I would like to make a visit to our head of security."

"Our head of security?" John questioned, before shaking his head and waving his gloved hands in the air, "Oh, never mind that. I can't call in sick. We've been too busy with treatments for people stuck on organ waiting lists, making them comfortable with what little we can provide for their symptoms. Plus, it snowed last night, which means there will be very few people willing to make the journey over if I'm not there. Go and see Avery yourself. Worst case scenario is she closes the door in your face." John shrugged, nothing left to say as he made for the door, shutting it with a little more force as he went.

Sherlock sat numbly, listening to the sound of John leaving, and then continued to listen to the muted sounds of Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was out again, and he realized her secretive behavior meant she was meeting with someone she didn't want John or him to know about, though him being the more likely reason. He cared little to explore that, so long as their landlady was happy and everything protected. Funny, he'd never much considered safety on any scale. Caution wasn't a familiar step taken in his line of work, but since Moriarty, he did halt for a fraction to think over it now, especially where his friends were concerned. He was more alert, and they were none the wiser for it. A fair trade.

Coming back from the recesses of his mind, he looked at the cold mantle above the fireplace. Without a roaring fire inside, it only seemed to filter in the winter air from outside from the first snow. His eyes continued to trace over the other objects, mostly everything in place and you wouldn't have known about his departure because of John's insistence to not move on, or his inability to do so. Even the yellow smiley face was still on the wall with the bullet holes, as if it had been plastered there the day the building was put up, lined in the drywall. His things. It seemed John was protective of preserving the memory of his existence here, and he could forgive sentiment just this once for his flatmate. His gaze landed on the empty cranium of his 'friend' sitting still on the mantle, two concaves in the front starring his way in question. He wasn't much in favour of the idea of speaking to his skull today. He needed real responses, and a set of eyes to at least look at.

As quick as his fingers could work, he tapped out a text and hit send while he went to his room to dress before he would grow distracted by other things. The file was still on his bed, tidied since the tea visit, though he hadn't bothered to look through it anymore, knowing from the woman herself it was fruitless. While it appeared she was going out of her way to purposefully goad him, it nevertheless was working, if only the smallest bit. She'd at least stopped her nettlesome habits of calling him by the last name.

Once he was finished dressing, he checked over his phone to see she had replied, the black and white text filled with her tone that he could almost hear her in the room with him.

_**I would ask how you know my living address, but that would be wasting our time.** _

_**I'll have tea made, whether or not you want any is up to you.** _

_**And be quick about it.** _

— _ **AN**_

Curious. She didn't ask about his knowing her number either, leaving it up to assumption that John had given it to him. A half-truth. He'd stolen it from John's phone when his flatmate was sleeping. For the time, he needed to be able to contact her for the case, and for his own reasons of solving what she wished to remain hidden. He left his room, grabbing his coat and scarf for good measure. Without John, he'd have to pay his own fare, and traffic would be slow because of the rapid change in weather. Honestly, it wasn't as if they didn't receive snow every year, yet it always managed to grab the masses of London by surprise and there was a constant learning curve for drivers to adjust to the cold conditions.

He took the stairs two at a time, in haste to continue with the case and so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn't see Mrs. Hudson as she came through the door. Her cheeks were rosy, hat and shoulders lightly dusted with a layer from the falling snow while she stomped off the powder from her shoes, "Heading out dear?" She asked, slightly winded from the cold.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, slightly suspicious as his eyes swept over her, deducing where she had been, "You weren't meeting with your lady friend. You also haven't traveled far, coat and shoes showing only a hint of being touched by snow, so an attendance at Speedy's. This person was a stranger up until last night. You attire and perfume doesn't speak for a date, so a friendly visit then, over business or some form of collecting information."

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she smiled at him, "I've been interviewing for prospect renters for 221c. A young man in particular is interested, and I wanted to surprise you and John with a visit from him tonight. I should have known better."

Sherlock didn't hide the look of disgust that passed over his face. Who would voluntarily want to live in that dank basement flat of Baker Street, and he doubted if Mrs. Hudson would be able to find someone who could adjust to the lifestyle of the building. He didn't want to have to put up with a fresh face, and he understood why Mrs. Hudson had attempted to be quiet while going about this task.

"At least allow him this one visit. I'm sure he'll be able to make up his mind about wanting to live here himself." His landlady added, a slight pleading tone in her motherly voice.

"Oh, very well." He agreed, knowing full well they wouldn't be gaining a new neighbour if he could help it.

He placed a quick kiss on her cheek in goodbye before he left out the front door. Instantly he was assaulted by the blustering winds and the sharp feeling of snow and ice pelting his exposed face. Pulling his collar tighter around his neck, he signaled for a cab, by chance one had been passing through before it pulled to a skidding halt by the pavement. He shook the snow from his hair as he sat solo in the back, giving out Avery's address to the cabbie as they trudged their way into traffic. With his mood somber over the possibility of a new neighbour, he pulled out his phone as a distraction.

Avery hadn't responded again, and he hadn't bothered with a reply. Considering that he was making the trip to invade on her afternoon, he wondered if it was proper etiquette to say something else. John would know better in this situation. While it normally gave him no grievance to intrude on another, he knew his head of security was an exception to this ritual of his. She would have the advantage of setting, it being her flat. He rather liked always having a leg up on everyone he came across, but the odds were a little lost on him with her, if even the smallest fraction. How on Earth had London managed to hide her this long? With her being acquainted to Mycroft and Moriarty, it seemed outlandish they hadn't crossed paths until this point in time.

The cab ride was taking too long, and he blew out an annoyed breath, earning him an ardent look of animosity form the cabbie. Really though, he could walk faster than this car, and in the cold and snow too. He was convinced as ever that luck didn't exist, and if it did, it wouldn't favour his side. While managing to give direction tips into the ear of the annoyed cabbie, he made it to Avery's building a full twenty minutes later then he had intended.

"Oiy, off you go then." The cabbie said, glad to be rid of him after being told about that last sharp turn to the left that nearly resulted in the front bumper hitting a snow bank. Sherlock chalked it up to the cabbies low mental capacity and slow reaction time.

He was out in the frost again, winter biting without relent on the sharp contours of his face as he kept his collar as high as it could go, breathing into the fabric of his scarf that still held the faint tobacco from his last cigarette outside the Diogenes club. He hastened his pace, stretching his legs as far as they could carry him as he reached the ground floor of her building. A much different residence than Baker Street, more expensive which meant she had a larger space. He hadn't needed to ask if she had a flatmate, deducing it was obvious she lived alone because of the secrecy of her job. Just as well, she would make a rather difficult person to share a space with, and coming across another John Watson like he had in this city wasn't easy.

He sprinted up the wide set of stairs, nearly losing his breath as he reached her floor. He scrunched his nose at having to take more than his normal set of seventeen, finding this journey rather tiresome without his doctor. He knocked loudly at her door, causing much more noise than needed to make known his arrival. The scowl he was wearing didn't go away as the door opened, Avery standing there in an outfit he couldn't imagine she herself had picked out. A soft pink polo neck, and from pulling it over her head had ruffled her hair because the short strands in the back were brushed at odd angles. Her feet were bare on a cold day, dark trousers not quite reaching her ankles as she crossed them, waiting for him to step inside. She offered no greeting, though her eyes said everything for her.

"Very inconvenient, how far away you live." He commented.

"Well I'm sorry if my flat isn't up to your standard of distance." She said without sincerity, though not entirely unkind, "I have other company, so play nicely." Her warning was stern, not bothering with simple pleasantries which he was thankful for.

His eyes were hungry to study the details of her flat, but the thought was lost on him quickly as his eyes landed on a stocky figure on her chestnut brown settee, sipping casually from china as his frosted eyes met with a matching pair, "Good afternoon, Sherlock."

"No." Was the first word to leave his lips. He turned to Avery with guile, trying to add up the skewed lines of why she would be spending the early part of her day with his brother.

She held up her hand in defense, her mouth drawn into a thin line much like his, "An unexpected visit, I can assure you."

"No matter." Mycroft interrupted as he stood, setting the cup back down on its saucer as he went, "I was about to make my exit. Ms. Avery and I are finished with our business."

"Really?" Avery spoke out of surprise and an underlying of suspicion, "But you'd only just arrived ten minutes before."

"Indeed, that was more than enough time for me to have finished my share of the conversation. I trust you'll think over what I have said." He tightened the belt of his long coat, umbrella waiting for the grasp of his fingers at the door as he took care of one last glance at the telly, playing over an old episode of 'Only Fools and Horses'. He breathed a laugh at something 'Uncle Albert' said—Mycroft's laugh sounding more like a wheezing animal because he showed little affection for humor. He strode in short steps to the door where Sherlock hadn't moved, and he could see his brother sweating through those pricey layers already before making his journey out into the cold where a black car surely awaited, "Good day to you Avery. I will be in touch with Maxwell next week."

"I'll pass on the message." She promised amicably.

"Sherlock." He said once more with a head nod of acknowledgement, enough of a prod to rouse Sherlock's annoyance in his absence.

Avery shut the door, turning around in an instant as she leaned her weight up against the heavy oak. There was something playful about her expression, even though she wasn't smiling. Not that she ever did as Sherlock had noted, most unusual for the fairer sex, "Go on then, comment away." She said, giving her permission for him to speak freely.

"Visits with Mycroft are frequent for you." It wasn't so much a question, though he wanted the confirmation nonetheless.

"If I say yes, will you be disappointed?"

"Yes." He said with a scrunched up look of distaste.

She huffed as she pushed off the door with her weight, "Honestly, why is it you can still find children amongst men?" She walked past him into the sitting room of her flat, shutting off the telly while the room cascaded into silence, "I don't want to talk about your brother, so why don't we start with your reason for this visit?" She sat down in her tufted leather chair, supple and a rich brown colour that was rather inviting much like the matching settee. She made an indication with her hands that he could sit as well, not that he needed the invitation.

His observations of her flat left him with the same conclusions as the interior of her office space. She had nothing personal exposed, and she either had no sentiment, or a reason to hide all matter of items as such. The walls were neutral beige, the furniture lined in order where there was any. Much of the floor was unoccupied, a large span of rugs and hardwood with little else to view. No pictures once again, and neither did any artwork hang on the walls. While her taste was expensive, it felt like not a soul could be found in the showroom state of her home save for the upkeep of no fingerprints, dust or rings on the coffee table. He assumed her bedroom was down the narrow hallway to his right along with the loo and a small broom cupboard, while her kitchen was laid on the left with a spare bedroom. Everything was on the one floor, and the lighting dim even with the drapes pulled opened at the large bay window.

Patiently she waited for him to finish before speaking, "A break in the case then?"

"Unintentionally brought on by John, though he is unaware of that. Seeing as you conduct background checks, you must also know your workers medical records."

"I do." She answered honestly, her face growing curious, "All of those files are kept in my office at the club though, so anything you need to see, I'm afraid I don't have."

"Then I must ask you clear your schedule for today, regardless of important engagements."

She pulled a face, more in wonder than of anger, "John's not with you today?"

"Clinical work." Sherlock excused, not wanting to delve into the boring details of John's job.

She sighed as she brought herself out of her chair to stand, "Fortunate for you that I don't have any appointments to break. I'll go change, and please try to refrain from touching anything."

He listened to the soft padding of her feet travel across the curlicue patterned rug of her hallway before the small snap of her door to her bedroom. He was up from the settee in an instant, searching through the odd ends of her flat in hopes of finding anything more to educate him on the mystery of her past. Was it possible for a woman to own this little? His hands patted down her mantle, the cushions of her furniture and the side tables (in which he found a revolver in one of her drawers) before he silently went to the kitchen. Also a spotless room, the cupboards were dark and the appliances sanitary white as he rummaged through the contents. She certainly had more food kept around than he or John, and she was only one person. Health food, made up of the four food groups, though there was half a baked apple pie kept under plastic wrap that smelt sweeter than anything that had ever graced their kitchen. Dull, nothing alluding to her secrets, only that she was a healthy individual who would rather cook than order takeaway.

He strode back into the sitting room, a prominent frown on his face as he paced across the hardwood. She still hadn't returned, and the feminine habit of taking too long to get ready was trying his nerves. His mind came up with an idea to get her attention as his muted footsteps took him back over to her side table. Keeping quiet, his hand found the revolver lying in the wooden drawer, his fingers enclosing around it as he brought it out into the open. He knew which wall wasn't connected to another flat, and he took careful aim with a keen eye, grip secure around the trigger as he fired. Fascinating, his eyes took in the weapon with astonishment. Her pistol was of a higher caliber of strength than John's, and he had blown a sizably large hole in her wall, the paint chipping away as pieces of the drywall fell to the ground.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Avery shouted at him, having been halfway down the hall when he had fired. She had one hand covering her ear, shocked from the gunshot.

"Honestly, you were taking much too long and I am in a hurry."

She had no reply to that, and while he had been preparing for an onslaught of her words, he was decidedly surprised when a force hit him like a freight train, bringing him down to the ground as he went face to face with her floors, getting a mouthful of hardwood. He could almost taste the lemon pine sol floor cleaner as she kept him down with her weight atop him, her knee pressing into the middle of his back as she pried the revolver from his fingers, "Really, you had to do that? I have neighbours, some of whom I'd like not to report me. Things are strange enough around here as is with your brother stopping by unannounced." She spoke rather calmly considering their position, which he wasn't growing fond off. Rather degrading in fact. "You're paying for my wall." She remarked as she let him up.

He shot her a black glare as he dusted himself off from the unpleasant fall to the ground. Her lithe figure was rather deceiving and he hadn't anticipated being manhandled quite like that. It was rather good John wasn't there, though if he had been the gunshot wouldn't have likely occurred either. She put the gun back in her drawer, locking it for good measure before she crossed her arms to look at him with laughter in her eyes, "I suspect your searching was in vain because you wouldn't have found what you were looking for."

"And what do you think I was looking for?" He played along, feigning ignorance to her suggestion.

"The chain I was wearing at the funeral. I know you saw it, and you can be sure you won't find it again so stop looking."

Being told to quit only furthered his resolve to solving what she wished to remain hidden. He suspected his brother knew more about this woman before him, though he wasn't desperate enough to lower himself to such lengths. It was a new game, something to otherwise occupy his time when no cases were appealing to his mind. Presently he felt himself growing closer to catching this eye ball serial killer, so he set his priorities in order. It didn't stop his eyes from gliding across her bare neck as she walked to the entryway of her door, shrugging on her black peacoat with a gray scarf and hat as she waited for him to join her, "Come on then. Traffic is slow and I don't feel like getting caught up in a blizzard today."

He kept his eyes trained on her, deciding now would be the opportune situation to put an end to his hesitance to believe everything she had told him thus far. As she made to open her door, he reached over to shut it, his height still giving him a distinct advantage over her. She frowned in response, gazing up at him in question, "What is it?"

He loomed over her, trapping her into the corner between the wall and the door as her face fell into shadow from the dim and snug entrance of her flat, "You lied about your past with Moriarty."

She took in a deep breath, not breaking eye contact as they stood almost nose to nose, "Why would you think that?"

"You're reluctance to deny this fact as well as the change of the tone in your voice, detectable to ears that stop to listen. I first picked up on it when you were hesitant to agree to a date with John, and your voice was the same when you spoke to me about Moriarty."

"Oh Sherlock, you are so quick to pick up on the little things. Be careful not to solve everything at once or you'll become bored." She attempted to push past him, but he griped her left arm just above her wrist with his fingers. He tested her heart rate, strong and steady while her breathing remained the same. If it was possible, her eyes narrowed instead of dilating, indicating she wasn't enjoying this close proximity like many had before her, "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't use your tricks on me; I don't flatter easily."

"It is not a trick."

"Now who's the bad liar? You are looking for my breathing to be laboured, my heart rate to have increased, and my eyes to be dilated with arousal. I'm tempted to congratulate you on your forwardness, though old tricks do lose their lustre over time." She stepped forward, leaning her body up against his as he tensed with uncertainty, "Can I have my arm back now?" She whispered into his ear with a teasing edge.

His grip immediately retracted, and his arms went slack at his sides. He was thankful for the blackness they were surrounded in, or she might have caught him in embarrassment, "How did . . . you know about that?" He said as if it was mortally wounding to ask a question.

"A little bird far away told me." They stared at each other in the silence, and it went unsaid what he concluded she was hinting at.

His heart did something silly, plummeting at the idea, having forgotten much of  _her_  in the two years he was away to protect his friends. He didn't want to believe what his mind had already deemed as the answer. He now knew Avery was acquainted with Moriarty more than she had initially admitted to, because she was also familiar with  _The Woman_. His mood was altered by this realization as he followed blindly by her side to the ground floor of her building. He most certainly hadn't scared her off with his deductions, though he was suddenly sparked with unwillingness to let her venture too close. Avery was either a victim or perpetrator, and he was finding it difficult to see how her being either would make a difference.

"Sherlock." Her voice interrupted the distance he had set between her and his mind palace. He stole a side-glance at her, waiting for her to continue as he turned his eyes forward, "I'm sorry I can't tell you more. Mycroft forbade me from doing so."

So his brother did know more. He scoffed in derision at her for obeying the rules so easily, "And you always do what he tells you?"

"If it is to keep others safe, then yes. You knowing, or not knowing won't change anything. I'm not a permanent fixture in your life anyway, so why should it matter if you know my past down to every detail?"

He ignored whatever sentiment was in her statement, left perplexed by only one thing, "Not a permanent fixture?"

"I should think it is obvious after this case is solved, we will no longer be in contact with one another."

She stopped walking when he did, them facing the doors to the lobby as the white shining snow reflected outside, "John likes you." He said blankly.

"And I like him. I like you both, but that's no reason we have to keep speaking. It's part of my life I guess. I'm not supposed to have friends." She looked at him with an earnest smile before nudging her head to the door, "Come on, go show off and get a cab before I do again."

Her actions seemed forced as she started for outside. Something in her words had caused him to go numb as he followed, quite lost from the melancholy in her voice. She wasn't supposed to have friends, and he didn't have any idea what that meant. Perhaps he should have been more expressive in John's favour of her, just to keep her from saying those things. There had been a time where he had spoken similar, and being placed on the opposite end put him in a zone he was unadjusted to. But what could he say? He wasn't annoyed or irritated by her presence, and he found that to be his level of liking someone in return. The words felt so personal though, and wouldn't be forced to say them for the sake of sparing whatever feelings she was experiencing. He did what he was best at, remaining silent as he hailed them a cab at the pavement of her building, smirking to himself as he once again caught the frustration on her face, whited out by the snow.


	8. Polar Bear

To say it was an awkward cab ride didn't even begin to describe the silence. Even the cabbie looked like he wanted to flee, and would likely tell them they could take the wheel if he wasn't already obligated. Avery was caught between her guilt and own sense of duty, and so she chose not to speak. She should have known Mycroft's visit didn't have anything pleasant to go behind it, a stern warning instead of a friendly chat between old mates. It wasn't that she detested the man in any way, quite the contrary; they were on rather good terms as compared to him and Sherlock. Being on common ground with Mycroft Holmes didn't prevent the man from still ordering her about however, but she understood his concerns, and they agreed they thought it best for her to depart from Sherlock's and John's life before she could get too involved. Only destruction and hurt would she cause, and she kept reminding herself she wasn't a permanent fixture.

"Where did it come from?"

Her eyes snapped to Sherlock when he suddenly decided he'd had enough of their silence, though his start of conversation had her confused. "I'm sorry?"

"The apple pie in your refrigerator. It is obvious that you eat healthy, for the sake of your job you need to be in strong physical condition, and a sugar loaded dessert is not something you would buy. It was covered in plastic wrap, baked in a glass dish, so homemade, but not by you as you don't have the time or the patience to bake."

She gave him a strange look. "Well, I see you took to looking through my kitchen. And you're right, the pie wasn't made by me, but I don't see why that is important."

"You said you aren't supposed to have friends." He pointed out bluntly.

"Oh, that again," She had only let her guard down for a short moment, but it had been enough for Sherlock to read sentiment from her as well as giving a part of herself away for him to pick into slowly. The man was like a polar bear when he came across a piece of information. He would travel a great distance, unyielding until he could break through the ice and have his fill, and she was the poor seal left to be torn apart. "I suppose you wouldn't believe if I said a neighbour gave it to me?"

"No, your neighbours don't like you," He said candidly. Avery doubted if he'd have neighbours who liked him if he moved out from Baker Street, but she kept from saying any childish retorts. True, she wasn't on the greatest terms with her neighbours, what with Mycroft or someone else involved in her work always popping up unannounced. It got people talking and once the gossips started, there was no end to it. Let's just say she didn't see herself sitting in on any of their sewing circles anytime soon. "My brother is a frequent visitor of yours."

"Yes, and I'm sorry he got to the promised cup of tea before you did," She was running out of ways to dodge his questioning, and the cab was suddenly a different kind of stuffy. The blizzard outside was looking rather inviting, and she did not doubt she could tuck and roll out of the moving car door if the need to escape was dire. Mycroft's warning was flashing in her mind;  _'do not tell my brother of any compromising information'_. That promise would be harder and harder to keep the longer the case went on, and she would try to provide whatever Sherlock asked if it meant getting out of his life quicker. "The pie was from an acquaintance; more of a colleague than a friend. Does that satisfy you?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but a kind of acknowledgment passed over his face in the form of a disgruntled frown before melting into neutral. She let out a sigh under her breath, feeling disappointment and guilt at herself for being cryptic. Honestly, she shouldn't have let John and Sherlock as far into her life as she already had. That afternoon tea at their flat had been a mistake, one she could not take back now. She watched the snow as it continued to fall listlessly to the ground, the patterns of flakes already stuck frozen to the windows as she observed them carefully. Her mind became lost to the icy crystals, and their jagged arms and legs as they sprawled out across the glass. No two were alike, but it seemed impossible for some not to be similar, at some point or another. How many had fallen in her lifetime? Her mind became lost to the bizarre thoughts and she didn't realize the absurdity of her mind until the cab had come to a halt before the nightclub. Sherlock had flown himself out of the cab, leaving behind the billowing of his coattails and for her to pay the fare.

"That fellow you were riding with, was that Sherlock Holmes?" The cabbie asked as he accepted her money.

Apparently Sherlock's notoriety had vastly spread across London, and for a moment she was gobsmacked on how to reply. "Yes, that is him."

The cabbie proceeded into a rant of what a fan he was and how he had followed his story in the paper and John's blog. Avery, quickly losing her interest, got out from the car and closed the door on him right in the middle of his recounting. She could make out his scowl at her through the window before he pulled away, getting lost in the blustery storm. She lost track of the cab and of everything else, only being able to see a foot ahead of herself as she jogged through the blizzard. Her feet landed firm on the slick pavement, and she found a miffed Sherlock at the front door, locked out and freezing from the cold. He stood unmoving against the wind, though the tops of his cheeks were already a throbbing red.

"Wonderful time to stop for a chat." He commented dryly over the hollowing air.

"It was about you actually. Seems the cabbie was an avid fan," And here she thought he had been looking uncomfortable because of their awkward silence. It was idolizing that had got the better of him. "Maybe you should have signed his steering wheel." She jibed.

"And yet he still made us pay for the fare. Hardly a worthy fan, he should have thought that through better."

"You mean, made me pay for it." She corrected lowly as she unlocked the front door with her key. Sherlock stepped inside after her, letting the door close shut behind them before she entered the alarm code. Security was important, for the sake of keeping their operation secretive, and they had yet to ever suffer through a break-in.

Sherlock brushed the snow out of his hair and from his shoulders while she shook out her hat and untied her scarf. They covered the carpet in the wet flakes, but the residue was quickly absorbed into the fibers. Already her blood was warming from the cold after only being inside for a moment, and it made her dread having to go back out in the storm eventually. "Come on then. You can look at her file, but you can't keep it."

"I won't need it. I rarely have to read anything twice, and besides, I'm merely clearing up a suspicion I have." He started through the darkness of the club, finding his way across the floor and stage to the back hallway. She followed after with a shake of her head, wondering if he was always so sure of himself, and figured yes to be the likely answer. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, in fact, she found his confidence to be quite admirable considering he had all reason to be.

"You learn your way quickly, even though you came through the back the last time." She said idly as they stopped before her office door.

"A simple enough layout. I expect the V.I.P. section is behind the red velvet curtain to convey a sense of importance that those clientele will be hoping for."

"Indeed," She gave him a coy smile. "They need to feel important to reassure themselves what they are doing is not as criminal as society dictates it to be. I could care less about the customers we serve. My job is protecting secrets; it only requires me to keep my eyes sharp, and to look the other way for everything else that doesn't pertain to that first rule."

"Why would my brother have interest in a relationship with a man who sells sin for a living?" Sherlock asked aloud, and she wasn't sure if the question was directed at her because of the aloof expression on his face. "This is much more my territory than it is his."

"Anything is your territory Sherlock. You aren't afraid to get your hands dirty," She said as she hit the lights to her office, revealing the bare desk with the chair behind it. She strode over to the filing cabinet in the corner, digging through her labeled paperwork with Sherlock's expecting gaze on her. She stopped what she was doing for a moment to look at him blankly. "If you are so curious about Max's relationship with your brother, you should ask Mycroft yourself."

"Never," Sherlock refused, outraged by the very suggestion. "It will reveal itself in time. He's never been skilled at hiding anything from me for long."

"He says the same of you in return," Avery replied with a laugh. Sherlock crinkled his nose in distaste at her amusement while she slid Taylor's file across the desk surface. "Read away."

Sherlock grumbled unintelligibly as he started to leaf through the papers, flicking through page after page while his eyes darted over the printed words at a rapid rate. While he did that, Avery went back to her phone, finding a message there from John, warning her that Sherlock would likely come to disturb her day. Oh how correct that had turned out. She smiled to herself, envious of the friendship the two men shared in. It made her all the more aware of what she was missing in her life because of her job, but she forced the thought away as she replied to the message.

_**Don't worry, already snooping at my work. I'm sure he'll fill you in later.** _

– _ **AN**_

She hit send just before glancing back up to see Sherlock had finished with the file. He had invited himself to park down on her desk surface, hands folded together under his chin as he contemplated over details. He likely would not hear anything she said if she chose to speak now, so she pulled out her swivel chair and took a seat, patiently waiting for him to make a move. She thought of her visit with Mycroft again, little else being able to occupy her mind apparently. It was foolish for her to feel like she was losing something already, when she hardly even knew John or Sherlock. She'd known about them on paper before in person, but for some reason she could not divorce herself from emotion. They were two of the eight numbers she had programmed in her phone, and she knew she would have to remove them soon; Mycroft's orders. She huffed, annoyed with herself for caring so quickly. Did she always fall for sentiment so easily or was she just lonely? It had been a long while since she had surrounded herself with new faces, ones that weren't patrons to the club, and they happened to lead exciting lives, just as she was used to. It seemed their paths were destined to cross despite Mycroft's hard attempts to steer her in the other direction, but so was she fated to depart from them in time.

"Are you quite done doing that, because often times I find it is myself who is left adrift in thought while in the company of stupidity," She gave a start when Sherlock spoke, not ready for his sudden intrusion into her thoughts as she sat upright in the chair. He must have been watching her for quite some time, and she frowned in embarrassment, which he took notice of instantly. "Do you realize you frown when you are feeling either flattered or foolish? It's very unbecoming."

"Unbecoming for whom?" She asked as her face turned indifferent.

"According to John, men like women who smile, or are pleasant in personality; although, that doesn't seem to be the criteria as of late. You are the exception."

"That's sweet of him, but I don't date." Her tone was curt, giving him the hint that she wanted the conversation dropped. She pushed out the chair and stood, demeanor hardening when she felt he was starting to pick parts out from her again.  _'Stay vigilant Avery, it's for his own good'_ , she berated herself.

"Another part of you having no social connections to anyone." Sherlock stated blandly.

"That's right. You do learn quickly Sherlock," She spared a smile for the sake of the conversation before reaching for the file with her hand. "I trust you got what you were looking for?"

"Oh yes, quite." He was studying her actions. She could feel his stare as she organized everything back exactly in place with precision. One of her habits happened to be extreme neatness, a flaw he would have picked up on the moment he met her.

"So, what's the next move, what did you find out?" She inquired curiously as she placed her chair back behind her desk.

"He isn't keeping the eyes. He's harvesting them." Sherlock said vaguely as he started to pace the floor of her office.

She pulled a face. "Harvesting them for what?"

"For the corneas obviously. Do try to keep up Avery, I don't need you to be exactly like John."

She smiled at the insult, knowing well that it was harmless, and simply his way of expressing his care for the doctor, who he clearly missed when away at his job. She likely was a poor substitute too. "Alright, despite the fact that wasn't obvious to me, why don't you tell me your thoughts?"

"The waitlist for transplants has grown recently with fewer organ donors," Sherlock continued. "Organs on the black market will fetch a healthy sum of money, not that personal gain is his purpose, simply an added boon to his hobby. He's clever."

"But why eyes?" Avery asked aloud while thinking to herself that only Sherlock would refer to serial killing as a hobby in regards to the murderer.

"I have five theories as to why that is," He continued to mumble incoherently under his breath before spontaneously reaching forward to pull her by the arm of her coat. "Come along then."

She was thankful for her height in that moment; her long legs able to keep up as he tugged her along like a child dragging a wagon. She barely got a hold on the door handle to shut her office door, and he made it impossible for her to stop and lock it. He was forced to slow down momentarily as she had to set the alarm once again, but he was right back to hauling just as soon as the last number had been entered, and they were out in the snow before she could even get her gloves back on her hands.

"Jesus Sherlock, slow down." She called through the cold wind. The frigid flakes pelted her face like a canon barrage, and she was thankful for Sherlock's skill to at least hail a cab in record time. He drew her into the halted car after him, her reaching to close the door before the driver pulled away from the pavement. She figured it was quite possible that the Consulting Detective could drive in a cab through London with the doors wide opened through traffic if he had to. One of the many remarkable things about him to be certain.

"New Scotland Yard please." Sherlock told the cabbie before leaning back in his seat, pulling out his phone, now completely ignoring her.

She frowned to herself before reaching into her pockets to retrieve her gloves. Even from being out in the cold for only a moment, her fingers were already stiff and red from exposure as she tried to wiggle them. She slid her hands into the toasty warm material, her nose beginning to run while she brushed the loose flakes from her hat. It was proving to be an unusual day spent in the company of Sherlock Holmes, and a large part of her was enjoying it. She relished getting into his battles, a familiar feeling she had not felt since earlier days, parts of her past she would rather not think of. Mycroft had given her stern warning about that, saying it was what had initially solidified John's place in the Consulting Detective's life as well. She was going to need more than a break from contact to sequester herself from his life; she'd need distance, and she had no doubt Holmes senior was already preparing something for that.

"Who do you need to speak to at the Yard?" She asked, the silence making her fidget, and she feared for her coat as she continued to pick at the hem.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. You've met him before." Sherlock said, his tone dull and candid.

"Oh that's right," She waved her hand in the air dismissively, recalling the face of the DI who had been there at the hospital when she had to identify Taylor's body. He was a close associate of Sherlock's, and at the moment that was the only detail of importance. "He gave you my record then?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, not missing a beat.

"Your honesty is outstanding. Anyone else would have denied that, but not you." She raised her eyebrow, being playful about the situation.

"It seems I am incapable of keeping the truth unless it pertains to a case," He put aside his phone to turn to her with observant eyes, trying to discern what she was hiding. "My brother has your real record. Whatever was left in the system were merely mild offenses."

"Yes," She said without hesitation. "My civilian charges are hardly that smearing though, but for the sake of my current career, it needed to be swept clean."

"Honesty for honesty then." He said in regards to her informative answers.

"Don't give me too much credit, I'm only telling you the safest answers I can so you'll be less inclined to keep looking."

"What makes you think I'll stop?"

"From that answer I'd say . . . nothing," She blew out an exasperated breath, annoyed that he wouldn't just listen to her. "You should heed other people's advice once in a while, especially when it is for your own good."

"Never been one to do things that are for my own benefit. Quite dull really," His eyes squinted, as if he was in deep in thought. "My brother has been helping you rehearse your answers, how very like him."

"You make it seem like I'm his new goldfish."

She fought back a grin as Sherlock grew irritated, throwing his head back with his hands thrown up in the air. "Oh he had to tell you that? My brother, sharing words over tea like an old hen."

"It's complicated." She reasoned, getting a laugh at the image he put in her head. Mycroft covered in feathers, clucking like a chicken; how heinous!

The conversation tuckered out when they reached their destination. She wasn't entirely thrilled to be spending a part of her afternoon with the police, but Sherlock preferred having someone out gallivanting with him, and she couldn't think of a good enough reason to refuse him. She paid the fare for a second time, though this cabbie was hardly enthralled by the Consulting Detective's presence, and so she was out at his side, spared from having to make idle conversation. Their steps were taken in unison, accidentally of course, though they must have been quite the sight approaching the building, and no doubt everyone was adjusted to seeing Sherlock with his much shorter doctor companion. It warranted a few stares as they entered through the doors, walking through the halls with normal people stopping to stare at them over the rim of a folder or coffee mug. Avery kept her eyes forward, never quite comfortable around the police which Sherlock was clearly privy to, judging by the sidelong glances he kept throwing at her.

"Oh God what do you want?" They were stopped by the same woman from the morgue, the one with the attitude who had tried to appear as empathetic over Taylor. A tight-ass in a suit for lack of a better term.

"Donavan, always a pleasure." Said Sherlock sardonically.

"No Doctor Watson today, that must be terrible for you," Donavan gave Avery a once over before realization popped on her face. "Oh, I remember you now, from the new case. Are you here to speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Actually, I'm with him." Avery said, indicating to a stoic Sherlock.

Donavan's demeanor changed with her face puckering sour as if suddenly Avery had contracted something contagious. "I see, well, you probably won't be of much good to him. Freak doesn't need help from anyone," She shot one last scathing look at Sherlock, leaving with strict parting words. "Greg is very busy today, so make it fast."

Her shoes clicked away against the tile as she walked around them, Avery rolling her eyes at the woman's petty jealousy, all pertaining to her work and how Sherlock was clearly better than her. "Bitch." She muttered under her breath, trusting that her initial assessment of the woman had been correct that day in the morgue.

Sherlock silently continued ahead, the matter forgotten before he had even taken one step forward, and obviously altercations with Donavan was something he was used to. Avery couldn't explain why, but she felt something akin to sympathy for the way he was treated. Freak was such an ugly word, and it was a sad day in the world when no one stopped to praise him for his brilliance. He wouldn't need the likes of her to come to his defense though, and so she kept silent while following after him. They turned a sharp corner where he entered through a closed door without knocking, interrupting the DI as he was in the middle of a conversation with, who was most likely, an employee.

"Sherlock?!" Lestrade cried in outrage.

"I'm glad to see you aren't busy. May we talk then?" Sherlock inquired, oblivious to the other woman in the room.

Lestrade quickly rose behind his desk, gentle guiding his female visitor by the arm, leading her out from the room while promising her he would clear aside a spot in his schedule for them to talk. Once the door closed, he swiveled around with an irate look on his face. "Interrupting me at work now are you? A simple phone call or a text might have sufficed."

"Not in this case," Sherlock said offhandedly. "And if I were you, I wouldn't waste time around that one. She was only being polite in the hopes that you could elevate her job status. Her hair was tied back in attempt to hide the grunge of having not showered for three days. Her water has been cut off, and she's desperate for any sum of money."

"Times are hard for everyone Sherlock," Lestrade replied evenly. "And she doesn't have a job here, she was just a new applicant for the many new positions I'm trying to fill. Evidently she won't be one of them; her skills weren't up to par." He muttered the last part under his breath, taking a rest back at his desk while he indicated for them to sit. Only now did he notice Avery as well. "Oh, I'm sorry you had to hear all that."

"It's quite alright," She brushed off while taking a seat. "It's good to see you again Detective Inspector. I'm not sure if you remember me?"

"Avery Nash, yes. Head of Security for the nightclub Vicarious." He did have a sharp memory, bu that likely came with the territory of his job.

"Hiring again? New faces that won't want to work with me I suppose." Sherlock grumbled, drawing the attention back to him.

"Most of the positions are for office work, accountants and so forth, although we did recently hire a new forensic photographer. He has wonderful credentials, I'm sure you'll work fine with him. We're all very impressed with him."

"Wonderful," Sherlock bit out in disinterest. "When did you change your name?"

"I didn't," Lestrade remarked flatly. "It's always been Greg, or Gregory if you prefer. You just keep getting it wrong because you can't be bothered to remember."

Sherlock made a face as if he disagreed with that presumption, but couldn't take the trouble to argue otherwise. Likely he thought it was a waste of his brainpower. "And how is work out in the field going?"

"I don't have any new leads if that's what you're asking, but I expect you do."

"Yes, how quickly you catch on," Lestrade gave an unimpressed look at Sherlock, though the pull of a smile was starting at the corner of his mouth which the Consulting Detective didn't give comment to. "What do you know about corneal transplants?"

"I know nothing about corneal transplants," Greg said with a shrug. "What are you suggesting; that we have a mad optometrist stealing human eyes?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered with a straight face.

"Oh?!"

"Anyone can be a donor for corneas after their death, regardless of eyesight or blood-type. He's made sure that none of these women are carriers for HIV or hepatitis of course, otherwise he would have nothing to illegally sell."

"What you're implying, is that a medical professional is killing women for their corneas, and he's selling them on the black market?" Lestrade ran a hand back through his silver hair, the age lines of his face growing more pronounced as he listened to Sherlock. "Alright, so maybe that isn't the strangest thing we've ever dealt with, but how are we supposed to find the practice? There are likely over a hundred optometrists in London."

"And I have it narrowed down to one, courtesy of Avery lending me Taylor Greenly's medical records."

Greg's eyes shot to her. "You keep medical records of your employees on staff?"

"It's our policy." She explained.

"Fair enough," Lestrade replied, not pushing the issue. "So I suppose you want me to look into this practice then?"

"Not quite. I need the medical records for the other victims, and I would rather check the practice over myself. Your people show up unannounced and cause a big commotion. Serial killers startle easily I'll have you know."

"Right, of course they do," Lestrade shook his head, smirking at the absurdity of the remark. "The records though, that might be a problem for our last victim." He paused, looking at Avery before he would continue.

"You may speak in front of her. I can guarantee she is completely innocent." Sherlock assured the DI. In this incident she was innocent, and it was nice to be described as such for once, as she wryly thought about the other details of her life.

"It's not that," Lestrade retorted. "I don't like the idea of you dragging an ordinary civilian into this case however."

"I volunteered because of Taylor; he hasn't dragged me into anything." Avery spoke up before Sherlock could say anything, though he did toss a bemused frown for her lie. All afternoon, he had literally and figuratively dragged her around London.

The DI looked doubtful, but he took her word despite that. "I can't encourage vigilante justice, so I will try to look the other way and treat you like John."

"Then no need to worry. I'm sure he'll be back the next time. I'm simply filling in for the day." Avery conciliated.

"Our last victim was homeless," Sherlock interrupted, steering the conversation back to the case. "Her records will be difficult for you to track down."

"It could prove to be a potential problem, but I'm sure it's something you look forward to figuring out before I do," Lestrade said knowingly. "If she has no ties to the practice, it could mean a potential slip up, or she was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Sherlock always had an answer for everything, and Avery admired that as he continued to speak. She was pulled away from their discussing as her phone interjected her thoughts when it buzzed. It was from Max, who apparently had shared words with Mycroft after his visit to her flat. The man wasted no time as she had come to learn. She quickly punched in a reply, her mood growing dim as she was sucked back into the black reality of her life. She stood up from her chair, both men pausing to look at her quizzically while she did. "I'm sorry gentlemen, but I need to leave. Please, continue without me, and good luck."

Sherlock frowned at her use of the word  _'luck'_ , but she was out the door before he could comment. Her pace had quickened as she darted through the halls, dodging police left and right as she pulled on her hat and gloves in preparation for the blast of cold air that would strike her when she made it outside. She grabbed the door handle, shoving open the door while her eyes watered from the icy breath of air. It had been blowing before, but the snow had since ceased falling after they had been indoors for a lengthy time. The wind continued to howl, it following her as her new companion as she made her way to the pavement. Maybe it was because they took pity on her, but she was able to hail a cab much quicker than usual. Just as she was about to step into the warmth of the car, she was blocked by a grip on her arm.

"You couldn't just let me leave then?" She asked, turning around to meet Sherlock's frigid gaze, his iris's the same colour as the winter sky.

"We finished early," He excused. "As it turns out, he had nothing more to add. We can split the fare then."

Avery imagined he had run out shortly after her, leaving a mouth agape Lestrade behind. Sherlock left no room for debate as she was pushed into the cab with him following suit, her shooting an unimpressed look that he was likely immune to after his time with John. "Splitting the fare requires you to actually pay," She gave her address to the cabbie as he sped off into traffic. "I have to be home before you do. I can't exactly wear pink to my job if I want to be taken seriously." She said in response to the look he was giving her.

"And does the Avery outside of her job position always wear pink?"

"You caught me on an off day," She replied smartly. "My dark's are all in the wash."

He appeared disbelieving, but she was saved by him getting a text, likely from John. He scowled deeply at the words, and it got her wondering what was so unpleasant that he read there. "How do you deal with your neighbours?" He inquired aloud, eyes still clued to the small device.

"They ignore me," Her brows rose when realization struck. "Oh don't tell me, someone else besides John and your landlady is actually going to be living in the vicinity of you?"

"A dismal turn of events." He pouted petulantly.

"Oh of course."

The cab fell into an unsettled silence, and she didn't bring up the matters of his case anymore. She continued to struggle through the muted tone, hands slick with nervousness as she watched Sherlock through the reflection of her window. His impassive face was dangerous, for his thoughts were working overtime at a pace she couldn't hope to keep up with. It was mortifying, but sometimes she was just terrible at looking someone in the eye. Something had happened in some area to cause this unrest, but she couldn't pinpoint where, and it continued to eat away at her until the cab halted at the building of her flat. "Sherlock, stop trying to figure me out."

"Where's the fun in that?" He asked with all the sincerity of a child, as if she had just taken away his favourite toy.

"There's nothing I can say to discourage you, is there?"

"So you finally understand that much. What a disappointing amount of time that took you, though there is proof of the power of ignorance now."

She chuckled at the insult, leaning forward to give the cabbie her share before deciding otherwise. "Twice is enough for one day I think. You can take it from here." She put her money away, his dismayed look tracking her actions as she did.

"How kind of you." Said Sherlock in response.

Avery stepped out on her side to the pavement, careful for ice patches as she shot him a teasing smile. "Give John my best . . . and good luck with the new neighbour."

"Luck won't spare me." Sherlock said in refusal.

"It was worth a try." She shrugged before shutting the door, watching as the cab went on its way in carting Sherlock back to Baker Street. The distance did not feel as far away somehow, and she could have sworn he was still hovering over her shoulder with that stony stare. She watched the spot where the car had been, a pleasant feeling running strong in her blood that made her impervious to the cold around her. Even the thought of a night at her job wasn't enough to rid her of the excitement from the day, and as she climbed the stairs up to her flat, she became accepting to the idea that she was captivated.


	9. The Black & Orange Dahlia

Sherlock cursed venomous words in his mind as the cabbie repeated his total back to him. He felt ashamed to admit he was used to having John pay the fare. Despite his doctor's protests and grumblings, John would always give in and pay. So when Avery had stepped out of the cab, leaving him to pick up the fare, he was quite peeved, and even a tad speechless. She should savor the feeling of that, because very few could claim to have surprised Sherlock Holmes in their lifetime. He left the odd sum of money with the cabbie before bailing out the door into the cold. The familiar sight of the brass 221B greeted him through the howling wind, and he went through the sticking door, using extra force to make sure it shut before he paused at the feeling that gripped him in the entryway. His eyes darted about; spotting faint tracks in the floor as if something had been dragged through the hall, and more than one set of footsteps were faintly visible. He knew John was already home before him, but there was another set of prints that didn't belong to his short doctor, someone with a much longer gait. No sign of a limp that would have been from Mrs. Hudson and her hip, and he judged the shoe size to be just a fit larger than his own. He quickly tackled the seventeen steps, stomping loudly while curiosity drove him. The wood creaked and groaned as he ascended up the flight to the flat, indicating to John of his arrival. It was rather quiet in Baker Street, oddly so, though he was in the mood for tea and solitude as he called for his landlady.

"Mrs. Hudson, put the tea on!" He shouted as he burst through the door of his flat, only to stop dead at the sight before him.

"Sorry dear, but we thought it would be better just to not tell you." Mrs. Hudson apologized from where she sat on the couch. John was in his own chair, home from the clinic before him (as he had concluded), and taking up the rest of his couch was a giant, blond mammoth. "This is the new tenant for downstairs."

The giant alien to Baker Street stood with his hand stretched towards him, full intentions on giving a handshake as he smiled with all of his teeth. "Hello," He nearly sent the coffee table flying as his knees knocked against it while he stood. He was rather tall, larger than anyone in the room, though it appeared he didn't know how to control his own size as he flushed in embarrassment. The mystery of the large footprints was solved, though the result was much to Sherlock's dismay. "I'm Garon." He introduced himself.

Sherlock looked at the hand hovering in the space between them, suspended out there in anxious waiting for him to shake in greeting. "No." He simply took off his coat and scarf before departing for the kitchen, leaving behind a crestfallen Mrs. Hudson and an appalled flatmate.

He had barely made it two steps to the cooker before John was following behind, calling his name in that demanding way that let him know he had done something wrong. It was John's military background showing again, and it always managed to rear its ugly head in times like that, when John thought he was being insufferable. "Honestly Sherlock, might you shake the man's hand before you completely write him off?!" John cried exasperated.

"Why should I, when I don't want him here," He replied childishly. "He'll only serve to take up space that I could potentially use for experimenting, and he's already disrupting the order of how things are supposed to work around here."

"Just talk with him first," John reasoned in a hush tone. "He would work out fine here, and he already promised Mrs. Hudson he would put forth his own money to help fix up the space. It would mean a lot to her too, and if he can actually stomach living in dank 221C below us, then he deserves a chance I say."

"Oh God, you've already made friends with him, haven't you?" He whined to his flatmate, though he wasn't entirely without sincerity for he did feel slightly worried that John would be looking to replace him after the two years he had put him through. Drat his insecurities, showing up unwanted at a time like this.

"He's easy to be friendly with, only because he's very pleasing," John said offhandedly. "Bit of a push over really, and I was certain that would work for you, but I guess we'll tell him no. Mrs. Hudson has other applicants lined up already, and I'm sure after this poor display, she won't bother to introduce us. Who knows what we could end up with?"

"Do spare me of your attempts at cleverness John. I saw straight through that," He said in a bored tone, fixing himself a cuppa from the kettle rested on the cooker. Normally this was Mrs. Hudson's duty, but she likely wasn't too pleased with him at the moment, and he was forced to fetch his own tea. "He has one chance. If he is disagreeable for me in any way, he is gone, and I'll personally ask Mrs. Hudson to rent out the downstairs myself so we can put an end to this foolishness."

"I'm sure it won't come to that." John remarked while trying to hide the doubt in his voice, but failed miserably.

Sherlock left the kitchen just as abruptly as he had entered, John scuttling after him as he boisterously reappeared in the living room. Mrs. Hudson smiled in relief, giving him a half pleading look to be polite. Garon looked unsure, sitting at the edge of the couch as if he was ready to bolt for the door at any moment, skittish as a squirrel and blues eyes wide as the ocean. "Should I leave?"

"No, stay put." Sherlock ordered as he threw himself into his chair.

John seated himself once again, throwing up a forced smile as he continued. "Sorry about that. You'll have to get used to Sherlock's . . ." The sentence trailed off when John couldn't think of the right word to put into that space. Really, there were a number of adjectives in the English language that could have fit there.

"Oh no, it's alright. This visit probably seems like I'm imposing on you." Garon said as he cracked his knuckles; nervous habit.

"No, not the visit," Sherlock interjected while watching him. "But you already have boxes unpacked in the flat downstairs. A bit premature I think. You must be confident that you'll want to live here."

"Well, the location and the rent are both good," Garon replied honestly. "And I'm sure I wouldn't be in your way."

"Garon's a photographer." Mrs. Hudson said with an amicable smile while trying to advertise good reasons for why he would be a good fit with then. "He takes lovely photographs; you should look at his work Sherlock."

"Oh anyone who can point a camera fancies himself as a photographer." He refuted.

John held his face in his hand, hiding his mortification, while Garon out right laughed, surprising the doctor and landlady. "That was always my sentimentality on photography too, but I went ahead and did it despite everyone in my life being against it, and now I can say with pride that I am a forensics' photographer."

"Really?" John said, his face flooding with relief that the man wasn't completely insulted by the previous statement.

Sherlock frowned, withdrawing into his mind as he observed Garon closely. His short striped shirt didn't give anything away to him being a photographer because there were no long sleeves to reveal chemical stains, though the portion of a tattoo was visible on his chest under the V-neck. Sentiment, or perhaps an appreciation for all things artistic. It revealed only an outstretched wing of a bird, the edges soft, and Sherlock surmised it was a dove. A symbol of love and peace, so more likely for sentiment. An odd fit for this man, at least on first glance. As he had first realized, Garon was tall, a sturdy build, though by no means bulky with muscle. It wasn't uncommon for a starving photographer to run about at all times trying to get good shots, and vanity for a man his age wasn't out of the question either. If he was moving into the small space of 221C, he was not in a committed relationship, but unlike John, he wasn't searching. Judging from the scuff marks on his trainers, and the condition of his trousers, he was clumsy, as first displayed when he had nearly overturned the coffee table. All in all, rather boring, but Sherlock also knew that wasn't likely to change with any of the other applicants, and they would be sharing a work space soon enough, even though he had not alluded him to that yet. Now seemed like the ideal time. "You will be working at the Yard then."

His blond eyebrows rose in surprise. "Uh, yes I will."

"Really?" John chimed in. "Did Greg hire you?"

"Yes, I met with Detective Inspector Lestrade a few days ago before I interviewed for the flat. My first real breakthrough since—well—it's the first real job I've had since I took photos for a free paper. I got a late start in photography, after I came to the conclusion of where I wanted my life to go."

Sherlock frowned in discontent at the knowledge of him previously working in journalism, a profession he did not hold in high regard. "I won't tolerate any unsanctioned photos taken of myself or of any of my associates that pass through the door." He quipped.

"Oh no, of course. That's why I quit journalism," Garon reassured with a shaky laugh. "I have some of my pictures downstairs if you would like to see?" He offered.

"That sounds wonderful," John exclaimed. "Sherlock?" He prompted.

"I wouldn't say it is wonderful." He remarked frankly.

"Oh honestly." Mrs. Hudson shook her head in reserved annoyance.

"We'd love to see them, please lead the way Garon." John urged, and everyone rose. Well, everyone but Sherlock. Why should he have to force himself on his feet for a stranger? Garon had already led Mrs. Hudson from the flat and down the stairs, but John halted at the doorjamb with a displeased look on his haggard face. "Sherlock so help me, if you don't put in an effort, I will change the locks when you're away."

"An empty threat; you are well aware I can pick locks," He pulled his legs up to his chest childishly on his leather chair, lips falling into an unsanctioned smirk. "You are constantly with me when I'm away; no time in your life to change locks."

"I wasn't with you for two years." John deadpanned.

He blinked once, visibly unaffected. "I believe that is what one would call a 'low blow'."

"Yes well, it was supposed to be." John retorted as he left through the door.

Sherlock scoffed but nevertheless followed after his peeved flatmate with a frown of his own. He trudged down the stairs to 221C, the door left opened as he listened to the voices blithering back and forth to one another. The smell of mildew was no longer as potent since his last visit to the basement flat, and it had been dusted and hoovered too. Amidst the boxes stood the others, and Lucy had slunk her way in as well, hovering at Garon's feet.

_'Traitor'_ , he thought disparagingly as he looked at the feline.

John shot him a grateful smile quickly for showing his face in the flat, to which he suppressed an eye roll. The things he would do for his doctor. He studied Garon's quick movements as he went from box to box; sorting through half of his belongings that he had taken the initiative to bring over in preparation for the visit. He had an organized way of approaching the task; all of his boxes labeled accordingly while he searched.

"Here, you can take a look at some of these. They're some of my oldest work, but there are still things to appreciate in them." Garon proceeded to pass out albums as he dug through his boxes, stopping to kneel down to scratch Lucy's head first while she released a purr.

He hovered at John's side as his doctor flipped through the book, page after page of London landscapes and architecture, from parks and monuments, to roadways and bridges. Dull and uninteresting as a wet dishrag in Sherlock's opinion, but the photo's began to shift to a different style as John furthered them through the pages. Some were developed in black and white, others having a splash of colour to exhibit his talents. Many were of tattoos; inked patterns and designs on blank canvases of skin.

"So, did you have volunteers model these for you?" John questioned, staring at the patches of naked flesh in the photos, each having their own inked design.

"Yes, though some were of friends I knew too," Garon explained as he looked at the pictures John was going over. "I was having a difficult time becoming inspired, but I got out of my rut eventually."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson cried suddenly, covering her eyes with one hand as she pushed her album away. "I'm too old to be looking at such crude things."

Garon let out a laugh, taking the book from her. "Truly sorry about that. I had a very interesting romantic life for a spell, and those pictures were the results I'm afraid."

John's eyes lit with prurient curiosity which he quickly tried to snuff out, even when both Garon and Sherlock had seen his elation. "I'm sure we've all been there at one time or another." He said casually while clearing his throat.

"Here, I'll trade you." Garon said, taking the one album in exchange for the other. Attempting to contain his excitement, John greedily leafed through the pictures, eyes wide while his mouth hung opened. It was at that point that Mrs. Hudson excused herself from the flat, mumbling something about the time for her soothers, while leaving the men to their viewing.

"You wouldn't by any chance happen to have her number, would you?" John asked with a pleasant smile as he indicated to a particular photo of a naked woman, lying on her side with her back to the camera, sheet pooled down at her waist along with her long hair sprawled on the pillow. The image was in black, white, and slate gray, all except for the jungle cat tattoo crawling up from her hip to the twist of her spine. The animal was snarling mad, ferocious and bold as the ink it was etched in.

Garon smiled fondly at the picture, shaking his head with a laugh. "Why does everyone gravitate towards that one?"

"Because there's a naked woman lying in a bed," John said without shame. It was apparent that he was in desperate need of a girlfriend from comments like that. "Who is she?"

Garon shrugged, getting back to his boxes as he spoke idly. "Dahlia, an old girlfriend. One of the countless others in there."

"So I see." John said as he continued to skim the album with intrigue.

Garon returned with a small black album from the bottom of the last box, a tie on the cover like a folder which he unwound as he passed it to Sherlock. "I think these might be more to your liking. Those were the copies I used for applying at the Yard."

Finally! He wasn't about to suffer through more portraits of phone booths and tea shops, or John's naked women. Blue corpses with numbers and measurements were much more to his liking. There was so much to discern at the simple angle in which an arm or a knee was bent against the pavement in death. Murder scenes, blood mixed with earth, and lifeless eyes, all staring back at him impartially. It didn't go unnoticed by him that Garon stood in question, almost anxious for his reaction. Was he waiting for his approval?

"You pay close attention to detail, and your light composition is adequate." He listed off methodically.

"Actually, I was wondering if you could maybe tell the cause of death just by looking at the photos," Garon requested. "I already have the job, so I'm not too worried about the areas of where I need to improve."

It was a bizarre inquiry from a stranger, but Sherlock could also not pass up the opportunity to show off, especially when it was being asked of him so freely. He flipped back to the beginning, diligently listing off the cause of death for each example case that was depicted in the photos, one by one. He fingers were a blur as they turned page after page, his eyes a whirl as they danced over the details of what was revealed, and what was wishing to stay hidden. He could recite either. Like running in a marathon, he finished the album in record time, slightly out of breath while snapping it shut with a clap that resonated in the room. Garon was staring at him in bewilderment, and his flaunting had also grabbed John's attention away from ogling the tattooed women in the photos.

"Showing off again?" His doctor asked bluntly.

He was about to retort that he was simply inclined to acquiesce the request that was asked of him, but Garon interjected before he could speak. "That was incredible!"

"Oh no." John said under his breath.

"No really," Garon continued. "Does the Yard even need me for this job, because it seems like you have it covered."

"Well, for documentations sake, I suspect they still need you," Sherlock replied somewhat arrogantly. "I have been known to play the violin at all hours, so do not complain now that I have given you fair warning ahead of time. If we pass each other on the stair, I might ignore you, unintentionally or otherwise, and on occasion I might very well shoot holes in the wall if I should succumb to boredom. Anything else, I'm sure your slow mind will pick up along the way."

"Wait, so I've passed the test; I can officially start moving in?" Garon asked, taken aback.

"Not that you haven't already." Sherlock commented sharply as he gazed at the boxes littered across the ground.

"If you can handle his abrasiveness, than you'll be anchored into Baker Street." John added, finally finding his adjective.

"Then I'll have it sorted by tomorrow morning," Garon agreed. "I already paid for my night at the hotel, but I can finish the paperwork with Mrs. Hudson right now."

"That's good," John agreed. "We'll leave you to lock up then."

John finally pried his hand off the album, setting it down with the other while Sherlock did the same. Garon matched John's short pace with his big stride as they went for the door, though Sherlock fell behind at the back as he took one last look at the vacant flat, surrendering to the idea that it would not be empty much longer. His eyes traced the surface of the floor where the old trainers had been. Unpleasant memories from the past came back to him before he quickly fought to push them away into the coffers of his Mind Palace. One might have expected his treasure room to be filled with secrets and other pleasant pieces of information, but in truth it was the dark room; a little corner of evil in his mind. The walls were scaled with grime, the lighting dim, and all of the cashboxes and coffers were locked tight to hold the memories he kept buried; ones that were too dangerous for him to permit to wander the corridors of his palace, but alas he could not delete them for their value. The door to that room was sealed away tight by thick links of a chain that he had forged long ago, and every year it grew in length to keep the nightmares at bay; to keep  _him_ confined.

He met John outside, who was paused halfway up the stairs to their flat as he waited. Sherlock couldn't help but say something as he matched his position, their footsteps thudding together melodiously in unison. "Abrasiveness, John?"

"It was the right word for how I felt you were being today," John said with a small grin. "Was that brought on by your day with Avery?"

"She made me pay the fare."

His flatmate laughed aloud as they entered their flat, Sherlock's face falling more into annoyance at John for seeing humor in the situation. "I'll have to have her teach me that trick."

She likely wouldn't be around long enough for him to form that kind of attachment, but Sherlock did not tell John this. He wasn't sure of the reason as to why he withheld this information; perhaps to spare his friend of the disappointment. Sentiment for his doctor. "Her relationship with my brother runs deeper than I suspected. A frequent visitor to her flat as luck would have it." He said while stretching his height out over the couch.

John took a seat in his chair, the leather sliding against the fabric of his trousers as he settled himself in the seat. "I thought you didn't believe in luck?"

"I don't." He frowned before going over in his head that the word had slipped past his lips without warning.

"Well, where Mycroft is concerned, what do you plan to do about that?"

"Nothing . . . for the moment of course," His eyes closed as he folded his hands together under his chin. "Given time, you can be certain more will be revealed."

"And did you find out anything new?"

"Yes, it upsets her to have holes blown in her walls."

"Sherlock, no one likes that," John said with a sigh. "And what were you doing with your revolver in her flat?"

"I never suggested it was mine, in fact it was hers. I was impatient to wait, so my method's to have her quicken her pace was to create a disruption."

"Avery has a gun? What, could she be a part of MI6" John asked bewildered.

"I suspect she has several stashed away, and I have already written off that possibility. It is unlikely MI6 is allowing reformed addicts into their ranks now," His eyes snapped opened as he sat up stiffly, bent up at his waist in a ninety-degree angle with his legs stretched out before him. "But she is under my brother's payroll. Her job as head of security for a nightclub pales in comparison to whatever her past entails."

John nodded, not saying anything more on the subject. His face was tired from clinical work, and it was only now that Sherlock realized he had shaved off the moustache. He was relieved. A clean shaven Watson was just another step forward for things to finally fall back into routine. How everything should be. "So, is Garon actually going to work out as our neighbour, or will Mrs. Hudson be conducting more interviews in a month?"

"He will have to suffice," Sherlock said blankly. "He will be at the Yard now, so better to have only one new face than two."

John gave him a knowing look. "Don't even try to deny that you were enjoying the attention and appraisal just a little bit."

"It was what first caught his interest for wanting the flat; not just the rent and location," He said frankly. "I'm afraid we will have to grow accustomed to living with a fan."

"Only one, that's not so bad," John said laughing as he looked out the window. "But out there, there's more of them waiting."

"No doubt your fault," Sherlock accused as he reached into the back pocket of his trousers, producing a small item he had snatched for his flatmate at the last second before leaving 221C. "Something for you to gaze at. I worry that the pictures on your computer have grown stale for you."

John took the picture from his outstretched hand tentatively, chuckling when he saw the image. "Oh, you stole Dahlia!?"

"I don't think anyone will miss her too badly."

"You do realize you stole from our new neighbour in the first time of meeting him?"

"Yes, one of those habits of mine that I warned him about," He told his flatmate in good humor. "I regret nothing."

"I don't doubt it," Said John, a smile in his voice while Sherlock returned to lying on the couch. "Thank you."

"Hmm." Sherlock grunted his reply.

"Well then," John spoke, his tone light as he set the photo aside for later. "Tell me about our case."

And he did.


	10. Operation Icarus

Avery's fingers were cramping. She'd been pouring over paperwork all day, every bone in her hand numb from writing, to typing on her phone, and her eyes were developing a strain from reading over small fonts. The solitude in her office was welcomed for once, especially when she wished to be elsewhere whenever she was trapped behind the oak door for eight hours most other nights. It had been nearly a week since her bizarre trip to the Yard that she had shared in with Sherlock, and while she had not heard from the Consulting Detective himself, she had heard from his flatmate. John was constantly keeping her up to date with the on goings of the life of Baker Street. It didn't bother her, in fact, from the brief words of his texts she figured he was in a bit of a rut himself. Something to do with the manifesting tension that had not been resolved since Sherlock's return, but she never pressed him on the matter because she didn't want to get involved. She had her own opinion formed on the matter of course, but it would only rear its head if John was in desperate need to hear it, and so far she did not think it so. Really, she was quite glad he hadn't spoken about much of anything, other than mentioning their new neighbour of course. Garon the forensics photographer, who apparently was an ardent fan of Sherlock's. With his fame reaching new heights, it seemed like everyone was those days.

She'd been given peace from Mycroft, though he had gone through Max to continue to deliver his warnings about being too close to his brother. Clearly she was being watched. They still had their own operation to be doing that had nothing to do with detective work, and she knew she had to get her priorities sorted though. Yeah right, easier said than done.

A knock at her door disrupted her brooding, and she called with her permission for the person to enter. She blinked in surprised as Max limped his way on his walking stick through the threshold of her office, a thoughtful look present on his face once he closed the door and took a seat before her.

"This is brief, but we need to talk." He started as he settled his walking stick against the desk, linking his hands together as he rested his chin down on his interlocked fingers.

"Shouldn't I have come to your office then?" She asked, finding the situation to be confusing because it broke their routine of how things were done.

"I needed the walk," He spared a dry chuckle, indicating to his numb leg with a callous shrug. "I'll be frank. The brother of our friend is starting to become a problem."

"Sherlock?" She confirmed, finding it to be a strange coincidence that her previous thoughts had also been centred on the Consulting Detective. "What's he done this time?"

"Wendi came to me earlier, saying that he had contacted her for a task with the case." He was sporting a grim look which she shared with after processing his words.

"And she said yes." She finished for him without him actually having to speak.

"Of course she did. You know how she is."

"Did you say anything to Mycroft about it?"

"Yes, over the phone. He was already aware of what his brother was doing of course," Max straightened in his seat, as if preparing what he had to say next. "It's a small concern that he is starting to get too close to what we have going on here. Mycroft is under the impression that you are the cause."

Avery made almost no reaction, save for the little twitch of her nose as her brows rose on her forehead in surprise. "Really, why does he think that?"

"Because you've let them get too close to you."

She felt soured by Max's words, his judging opinion sounding like he was comparing the situation to a moth to a flame. Sure, she could admit she was captivated, but she wasn't about to let either party burn for it. "And he's really so innocent in all of this? The only reason Sherlock is curious is because he has seen me with Mycroft. Our relationship is a puzzle for him. Mycroft has vaguely explained how he is with Sherlock, how they are similar in the fact that they do not form relationships with other people, normal boring people like us. John Watson is the first exception to this, but as far as Sherlock is aware, Mycroft has yet to make friends with anyone, so he wants there to be a reason at the end of the line so he has something to figure out."

"But Avery, you don't fall under the category of normal, not completely at least." Max warned. "There is something to figure out at the end of this, and I assume it is not to be revealed under any circumstance."

"Mycroft won't let that happen," She dismissed with a demurred frown. "He can't let that happen . . ."

Max pinned her with a sharp look. "You would know more about that than I do."

"Feeling left out?" She quipped.

"Not even a little bit," Max assured with a smirk. "I think you should speak to Wendi about this. She is going to leave early to go to their flat tonight. I'm letting you leave early too, because you know she will go through with whatever Sherlock has asked of her, and you need to be there to know the full details. You are still more experienced, and it might put Mycroft at ease to know you went along."

Why was it that everything she had to do was to pacify Mycroft Holmes these days? Avery felt her hands shake with nervousness, something she fought to get a tight hold over as she spoke thinly. "Fine, but after this case is finished, we have to make a clean break from Sherlock and John."

"Mycroft will expect nothing less," Max stated simply. "Will you be able to do that though? You seem attached to both the doctor and the detective."

"Consulting Detective," She corrected, her response natural and without discretion. "And it means nothing. They don't even know me Max."

He looked at her sadly. "Avery, I don't even know you, not truly."

"There isn't much to tell," She stood from her desk, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair as she readied to find Wendi. Before seeking the girl out, she caught Max's gaze, his expression unwavering as he waited. "I am sorry about that though. This situation is unfair for you, and I understand that with a lot of regret."

"No, it is fair, I agreed to do it," He disputed humbly. "What about you Avery?"

Her stare was as blank as a summer sky in the early morning, still fresh from the dew of night. She blinked rapidly and was headed out the door, leaving Max to lock up and show himself back to his own office without an answer to his question. The riotous sounds of the club could be heard through the thick hallway door, the only barrier between her and the other people. It was a weeknight, hardly a large crowd present, yet busy enough for her to keep questioning what else these people could be doing besides coming to ' _Vicarious'_  night after night. They had their usual patrons, familiar faces that had made a routine out of making an appearance. It was usually a cause for concern if someone was to break their habit, but then again, she was only keeping an eye on a handful of particular individuals, the ones that mattered for their cause.

She traveled down the back hallway to the staff lounge, going through the door just in time to spy Wendi at her locker, grabbing her coat while fumbling with her over-sized handbag.

"Oh dammit." She cussed under her breath.

"Wendi," Avery called for her attention, and the girl looked up in surprise before guilt bled all over her features like spilt ink on paper. "Off already then?"

"Max gave me permission." She promised hurriedly.

"Oh I know, I have a few questions about that, which I'm sure you can answer in the cab as we make our way over to Baker Street."

"He told you already?!" Wendi whined someone with a pout, though still managing to keep her composure. "Doesn't he trust me? It's not like anything bad will happen."

"Wendi, it's not that we don't trust you, but you should know Sherlock well enough from reading the blog that he can figure out the most hidden lie with but at glance at a person. Keep your guard up, or else you'll be the one dealing with Mycroft should a mistake be made."

"It's not like the rest of us are on the same level as you," Wendi shot back before looking ashamed by her flippant remark. Avery couldn't help but think that shame was misplaced. Wendi was like anyone else involved; she didn't know anything more about Avery than the next person, so she had nothing to feel regret over. "I'm sorry. I appreciate your concern, but you know I am quite capable."

"Oh I know that, there was never any doubt," Avery told her with a small amount of praise hidden in her tone. "But I am head of security, and I have to stick to that duty."

"So does that mean you are in on the case too?"

"I already am involved," From giving up Taylor's medical records to going to the Yard, she could say with certainty that she was already an intricate part of the case; might as well bury herself further into the part. "But once we find and bring Taylor's killer to justice, this stops. No more contact with Mycroft Holmes' brother or his doctor."

"I suspected," Wendi said as she scrunched up her nose and pulled a face. "Don't know if they'll leave you alone though. You have more secrets than anyone here, and that's just what he wants."

While Avery already realized that, to be told it so candidly was like a splash of cold water to her face. "What makes you think that they won't stop?"

"He mentioned you briefly when I texted him over the phone. Not by name mind you."

Avery frowned, drowning in concern over what that could mean. "He did? What did he say?"

"Only that he knew you would end up coming with me. It's kind of hard to distinguish tone over typed words though," Wendi said as she shut her locker. The metal door closed with a sharp clank echoing through the room. Avery tugged a little tighter at her coat, suddenly feeling a draft ripple through the material of her clothes that rattled through to her bones. "Should we go then?"

"Why didn't you just say no Wendi? It would have been easier for everyone." Avery said as she started her way towards the door with Wendi following, the clicking of her tall heels scuttling after her across the tiled floor.

"I want to help for Taylor. She was my friend, and she was yours too."

"No, I don't have friends," Avery said flatly, though it caused her head to buzz with emotions when she thought of the dead girl. "And I did my part to help, he knows now about the killer. If you had said no, the case would still be solved by Sherlock's own means. Neither you nor I can make that difference."

One sidelong glance at Wendi and she could tell the woman had more of an argument left in her, but she ran out of steam as they stopped at the back door where Brendan was waiting.

"Heading out boss?" He asked as he grabbed the door for them with one quick look at Wendi.

"Yes, to Baker Street," She answered tersely. "You're in charge until I get back. If I'm late, make sure someone leaves with Max."

"Of course."

His loyalty was appreciated by her. There was so few people left in the world that came close to the meaning of reliable, and Avery liked to think because of the way her life had ended up, that she was fortunate to witness such small miracles. Trustworthy; she had almost forgotten what it meant until Mycroft. Maybe not always the man himself (she knew him to hide the truth), but he had introduced her to a life where that was still an important piece, and she was always grateful towards anything positive.

Once she was settled in the back of a cab with Wendi, she let her thoughts stray. The feeling that a change was about to happen had been following her around like a lost dog, and she had not been able to shake it since it began. She'd been through enough changes to last her a lifetime, but unfortunately she was also too privy to when those things were about to occur, and she resigned herself to the heavy feeling in her stomach. It was like stones thrown to the bottom of a pot, and she could sense the numbness sinking in. She hated change, but she could at least be prepared for it.

* * *

John stared at the bottom of his tea cup with a thoughtful frown. It had nothing to do with the object being empty, but he was plagued with a case of wanting to jabber, and it couldn't have come at a worse time because he couldn't do anything about it with Sherlock mostly ignoring him and the room. Mostly mind you, he was still sprawled out on the floor by the fireplace with Lucy walking in circles around him. John had to tip his hat to the feline; she was consistent, like an arm of a clock continuously going around and around, nothing stopping her path, not even Sherlock's long limbs. For the first while it had been a comical sight, but John found himself wanting a different view after watching that spectacle for nearly three quarters of an hour. That had found him finishing his tea and staring into the cup in dismay, as if it would give him all of the answers. He wasn't even sure if Sherlock would listen, but it couldn't hurt to try.

"She's going to be angry you know."

Sherlock blinked, breathing out a quiet exhale before his eyes shifted to him. "Who?"

At least he was semi listening, and it wasn't the case of him being in his Mind Palace again. "Avery. She's going to be annoyed that you went behind her back to do this, and frankly I can see why."

"Oh that," His interest in the conversation was minimal, and John was afraid he had already lost him again. "What is the issue if it's only her employee?"

John didn't even have an answer to that, and that gave Sherlock a small victory. Despite having conversed with Avery for a few weeks of being acquainted with her now, he still knew absolutely nothing about her, but he was going on a strong hunch that she cared about those girls employed at her club. She was head of security, it was only natural for her to feel an attachment after a prolonged time; John knew he would if he was in her shoes.

Getting agitated with his flatmate, he stood from his chair and bent at the knees to pick up Lucy before she could complete her one hundred and twenty-seventh lap around Sherlock. Sadly he had been counting, even from his peripheral vision after he had chosen to look away, and it had reminded him of when he had been keeping track of the many obscene moans that had come from Sherlock's phone so long ago. He carried the squirming cat to the door to the flat, dropping her out in the hallway before shutting the door again. It was rare these days for Lucy to actually share in their space. She seemed quite comfortable at Garon's—much to Sherlock's chagrin. He had a childish attachment to the animal, and John suspected the only reason Lucy had been upstairs in their flat was because Sherlock had brought her there.

"Well, get dressed, or at least straighten yourself out so you look presentable. There is a small chance we will be entertaining two guests."

"Entertaining, no, not my area, I shall leave that to you," Sherlock said, sitting up as he fussed with the strings of his dressing gown. "And you'd best have tea made for two. Avery will be arriving with Ginger."

"Wendi," John interjected. "Please, if you're going to use the woman for the case, at least get her name right."

Sherlock said nothing, appearing unfazed, and John wasn't certain if he would take to the suggestion. "Thought you must have been hopeful John, dressing like that. Pressed trousers, a new jumper and—" Sherlock stopped to inhale deeply before continuing. "Oh my dear blogger, you should have spent the extra and gone with the Calvin Klein."

John thought his eye might start twitching after that embarrassing deduction, but he managed a small grimace instead. "Should I write up in my blog that in your private time you are a cat enthusiast, and are knowledgeable in the finer things such as men's cologne? Many people out there are dying to know the real you."

"Not a cat enthusiast, I much prefer dogs," He said with a hint of disgust, but at the prospect of cats, or for his intrusive fans wanting to know about him was unclear to John. "And the properties in many fragrances have much to reveal in the science of how men and women respond to each other in a sexual manner."

He started to ramble about how once a case had come down to the small detail of the woman's perfume, and that had he had more insight on the subject then, he could have solved the case in half the time. John smiled at the passion behind Sherlock's eyes whenever he spoke of such things, and that same magic he had felt the first day when meeting him was still near and dear in his heart.

"To end all of that, I would just like to say that I don't fancy Avery. I didn't think it would hurt to try and get back into the dating pool however." John said, missing the company of a woman as of late.

"Dating pool; idiotic term."

"Well the way you say it, you'd think I was talking about the cesspool," John said with a chuckle before there was an interrupting knock at the front door downstairs. Mrs. Hudson was aware they would be having company, so John didn't immediately leave to go greet them, and he was relieved that Sherlock had finally stood up off the floor and returned to his chair. His hair was in bad need of a comb, and he hadn't bothered changing from his pajamas or his dressing gown, making him look like he hadn't left the flat in days. That was not far from the truth of course, but John doubted Avery or her friend would be put off by that, even if it did make him look like he was aspiring to be the next Howard Hughes. Hearing a knock come from their own door, he quickly went to answer it. "Hello again."

"Hello Doctor Watson," Wendi greeted with a beaming smile that was almost too bright for his eyes. She might have used those teeth whitening strips, or maybe it had to do with the bright red lipstick she had painted on her mouth. She stumbled in on tall halls, and on an embarrassing note, made John realize he would be the shortest one in the flat that night. "Such a cozy little place you have here."

"Thank you," The flat was in disarray, and was a pigsty at best, but he took the polite compliment with grace. "Hello Avery."

He welcomed the other woman as she closed the door behind her, surprised at how comfortable he was around her presence in such a short window of knowing her. "Hi John."

At that moment, John wished for just a second that he had Sherlock's powers of deduction. Her response had been so lackluster, and he couldn't help but think her eyes looked tired . . . and sad. Like a phantom, she placed her hollow shell soundlessly on the couch beside Wendi, not even offering up a terse argument at Sherlock when he was certain she would have. His flatmate seemed to have been anticipating that to be her first move as well, but he did not share his surprise when she kept her eyes straight ahead to the wall.

John stood in the middle of the room, momentarily frozen as he tried to think of something to say. "Tea anyone?"

Wendi requested a cup, but Avery denied the offer politely while she crossed her legs and rested her hand against the arm of the couch. The flat was suffering from an uncomfortable quiet, but Wendi tried her best effort to get people speaking. Sherlock would not speak until he thought he had to of course, and John didn't think it would take long. The girl was quite agreeable, and her role to play in the case would be small, though nevertheless important if they wanted to finish things before another murder could take place. John of course had initially been completely against Sherlock's idea, as it essentially centred on using Wendi as the bait.

"I'm sorry Avery," John said while he handed Wendi her cup of tea. He received a soft thank you while he took his seat in his chair, waiting for the blonde woman to respond. "We are probably overstepping some line by asking this of Wendi."

"It's fine." Wendi piped up, but from the demur look in Avery's eyes, she didn't appear to agree.

"I don't particularly favour the idea of someone going behind my back and approaching one of my staff to enlist their help in a dangerous case. It makes my job more difficult, and is quite frankly a pain." She finally shot that ill-mannered look on Sherlock that both Doctor and Consulting Detective had been waiting for. It almost was a relief, and John felt he could breathe easy now that all of the egg shell walking could be put to rest. It might have only been him and Wendi doing that, as Sherlock was much too blunt to ever attempt such a thing.

"The only inconvenience would be if I am to repeat myself at anytime. I have no intention of doing so of course, so it would be better for me if everyone were to shut up and let me speak," Sherlock said as casually as if he was discussing the weather. "And please refrain from loud thinking."

"What's loud thinking?" Wendi inquired.

"Something I'm sure you've been blissfully unaware of lo these many years." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

While John had thought Sherlock would give one of those insensitive remarks, the scandalized look on Wendi's face made him think that maybe the woman wasn't as daft as she appeared. If he picked up on that, his flatmate most certainly would too.

"Oh enough," Avery huffed in exhaustion, like a mother scolding her disobedient children. If seems she was on the same page as John, wanting to get through the arduous night with as little hassle as possible. "You plan on using Wendi as your in to the practice, care to explain the thinking in that?"

Sherlock, who was still harbouring a petulant frown for having been reprimanded, brought his legs up on to the chair in a rather undignified manner before continuing to speak. "She's the right demographic for what the murderer is looking for. The three Doctor's at the practice do not have outstanding credentials; not top of their class and not even the highest rated schools did they graduate from. Most of the patients they receive will have identical backgrounds to the other four victims, save for the homeless victim obviously."

"We've done our research on the optometrists." John said, a hint of pride that he had actually been of some help in that area. It was a pleasant feeling to be consulted on matters from the one man who did enough consulting for the rest of the world.

"It is required that I sometimes need to look elsewhere on matters that are outside my level of knowledge. A wide network of people is good to have around in these occurrences. That's why I need . . . you." He said looking at Wendi, her name slipping his mind once again.

"It's Wendi," She supplied for him, no trace of animosity to be found in her voice which caused Sherlock to almost look apologetic unlike the many times he would forget Lestrade's first name. "So how does it work? Will I be going in alone?"

"No, Lestrade will be going with you." John piped up.

"Why not one of you?" Wendi asked with a frown.

"Due to your recent height in fame, a serial killer would be keeping a watchful eye for both of you. He'll expect you to come looking." Avery concluded as she looked to both John and Sherlock for confirmation to her theory.

"Unfortunately," Sherlock murmured with a faint scowl. "However, Lestrade is a suitable replacement. He simply needs to ask the right questions and keep the doctor distracted. He'll be posing as the fiancé."

While Wendi smiled at the prospect of playing such a role, there was still a questions that she seemed to ponder over. "But you said there are three optometrist's? How certain are you that it is the one Taylor went to?"

"He says he has it all figured out," John said with a shrug and a smile. To him, this half plan was fairly decent when compared to past cases where they had gone in with less evidence, yet still managed to come out with a victory. True, having their faces splashed across the media had taken the chase out of some of their work, but Sherlock still found a way to keep him on his toes, and the same thrill had returned to his life, almost as if Sherlock had never left. "We'll still be present at the scene, but we can't enter. What about you Avery, do you have any questions?"

"I have to go now," She said abruptly, causing John's eyes to widen as she rose from the couch while he looked at her. She appeared distraught, and the small gesture of putting her phone back into her coat alluded to the fact that she had received some troubling news that had sent her into a tizzy. She had jumped up faster than a rabbit, as if someone had lit a fire beneath her tail. "I'm sorry I—goodbye."

"Wait, I'll split the fare with you. I don't have enough for a full trip back." Wendi said as she leapt up too, to follow after the woman who had made her way to the door.

Sherlock sat watching the turn of events with all the acute quietness of an owl, his eyes beady and hawk-like. John let him continue to deduce in peace, getting out of his own chair to do his own little investigative work as he offered to walk both women out to the pavement. Avery had been strange and distant throughout the visit, and he would find out what he could before she left.

"Wendi, can you give us a moment?" He asked as they stopped in the cramped area before the front door at the bottom of Baker Street, the entrance filled up by their presence.

"Alright. I guess I'll talk to you before we finish the case," She said, tossing an unsure look at Avery who gave her the nod to leave. "I'll get us a cab.

"I'll be with you in a moment," Avery said as the door closed, leaving her with just him in the hallway. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

"You just seem, I don't know, not like yourself tonight. Maybe I'm over thinking this, but I was worried, and I thought I might lend my ear."

"You're Sweet John Watson," She smiled, small but genuine unlike the forced expressions she had been displaying the rest of the evening. Maybe it came from being a doctor, who was he to say, but he always had a way of knowing the signs of someone in pain, be it mental or physical. "I'm alright. Just a bad week. I fly too close to the sun sometimes, and it can get too late to pull back if I'm not careful."

"Sounds like something Sherlock would do," John said with a chuckle, though he could tell he wasn't going to get much more out of her then that. "His two years away is proof of that."

Avery grew somber by his words, looking at her feet as she spoke. "John, it probably isn't my place to say this, but have you considered what Sherlock's two years away from you were like? I know it's easy to evaluate your own pain, but I'm sure his suffering was worse than you think. He put himself on the line out of his friendship with you and the others that were threatened, and you think that was an easy choice?"

He wondered why now was the time she chose to share her opinion about the sore topic. So many times before he had talked with her about Sherlock, dropping small hints that he wanted and needed an outside voice. Maybe he had grown comfortable around the idea that she would never speak it, and he had liked clinging to the thin rope that she would never point out what be had feared was in his heart. In truth, he had thought about what she said often, what Sherlock had endured those two years that they had been separated. Of course his first reaction when Sherlock had returned had been to land a solid punch to his face, and it couldn't be helped, not with how aloof Sherlock had been as he suddenly reappeared in his life. John had done what any normal person would have done, the expected reaction, and it had left him culpable then, and it still did now. Hearing Avery's words, it set off his anger. "You're right, it wasn't your place to say." He said as his features transformed into a frown.

"Then I'll leave it at that." She said with regret colouring her words. "Goodbye John."

Instantly he was filled with shame for his poor reaction, but he didn't try to stop her as he watched her retreating back head out towards the lights of a cab parked at the pavement with Wendi already waiting inside. Without thinking, he quickly tapped a message out on his phone to send to her, asking if she would come to see them for the case with Wendi tomorrow.

 _ **'Of course,'**_  was the quick reply, and she didn't even bother to sign her initials which meant she had skimmed reading his text, only bothering with a short answer.

John sighed just as Sherlock's violin broke out into limpid song upstairs, and his feet hit the steps as be trudged up in the direction to his flatmate while the sound grew louder. Sherlock's back was to him as he entered through the door, the bow moving in fluent strokes over his shoulder as he faced the window where the curtains had looked to have been rearranged hastily. "Did you find what you were looking for, or did you ruin the chance." Sherlock asked without stopping.

"Like you don't already know the answer." John huffed as he flopped down on to the couch, pulling the Union Jack pillow into his lap, wanting to squeeze his frustration out on the poor cushion. "What do you think the hurry was all about?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said as if that should have been obvious. "But this time was different. She was upset, though I commend her efforts of trying to hide it."

"Crying women alarm you?"

"Avery isn't a crying woman. She collects guns, and was a heroin addict." A movement was heard in the downstairs flat, and Sherlock promptly ceased his playing on the violin as his eyes lit up with glee. "Wonderful."

He set down the instrument with care, making sure it was safely put away in its case before he bee-lined for the door. His dressing gown billowed out behind him as he left down the steps, and John was left on the couch, bemused as he looked to where Sherlock had been standing, and then to the door which he had left opened carelessly. He considered following after his flatmate, but no sooner had Sherlock departed downstairs before he heard the thud of footfalls sprinting back up to their flat. Sherlock came back in in a rush, a small brown envelope in his hand while the opened door remained forgotten. John stood and shut it for him, only to find Sherlock had disappeared from the room as he spun around on his heel. He had gone to his bedroom (unlikely for sleep) and John followed, having nothing better to do than find out what his charismatic friend was up to that late.

"Sherlock, what did Garon give you?" He asked aloud so he would be heard.

The reply was muffled. "Another piece for the game."

"What game?" He suppressed a shudder in horror, remembering the last time he had heard that word, it hadn't been pleasant for any of them.

"My game with Mycroft," He remarked offhandedly, his voice coming from behind the bedroom door as John stood beside it. Sherlock was in his room, with the door closed no less, and alarm bells started to go off in John's head. Something was amiss. "I find this case to be a distraction at best, and I will be glad to be rid of it so I can focus on the game."

There it was, that word again that John had come to hate. "Can I at least know a bit about what you are up to?"

The door opened a crack, but Sherlock didn't immediately invite him in as he blocked the orifice with his frame. "Better yet I can show you, though I suspect your reaction will be as predictable as I have it envisioned."

John didn't know what he was getting at until he shouldered his way through the crack in the door, shoving the consulting detective back with some of his military strength. Sherlock kept an impassive face while John openly gaped at what he was seeing. It wasn't as if he had come to know Sherlock's room in great detail, being able to count the number of times he had been in there with his fingers, but he certainly wasn't used to it looking like this. Red string was taped all over the walls like webs, connecting points of interest from pictures he had acquired of Avery that now acted as wallpaper over the dark paint. If it was anyone else, he would have thought it to be a mad sort of shrine from an obsessive stalker, but with Sherlock it went a step beyond that. This was a complete invasion of her privacy. "I . . . what is this . . . why?" John managed to sputter out.

"As you can see, she does often share in visits with my brother," Sherlock said, stepping over his bed as he went over to the far wall, indicating to a picture where Avery was seen talking with Mycroft outside of the Diogenes club. "They're very careful with their conversations though. Must have known I had members of my homeless network listening in on them."

"Sherlock no, this is creepy. You have to get rid of these right now." John argued, coming to his senses. "And how could you drag Garon into this?"

"Quite simple really; I asked and he volunteered. It's as you said; he's quite eager to please."

John couldn't resist rubbing his hand down his face in a sign of exasperation. "You could get him fired from his job at the Yard if someone were to find out you have him employed on the side as your own personal investigator. This is almost the legal definition of stalking."

"Oh he's hardly an investigator. I simply need a visual to draw from as I form my own theories." He traced a line of red string, walking over to a connecting wall as he put up the few new photos he had just received from the downstairs flat. The consequences of the matter didn't seem to bother him, almost as if he was oblivious, and John didn't doubt that Sherlock might have been ignorant to a few of the details that others would perceive as strange. John had half a mind to go down there and yell at Garon, but he unfortunately knew something like this was sure to happen with the way the man had seemed so pleased at the prospect of even living in Baker Street. Much like he did with Molly, Sherlock was quick to jump on the opportunity to exploit that feeling to use to his advantage.

"And your homeless network hasn't heard anything of interest." John said, calming a little as he waited for an explanation.

"Hmm, afraid not. Mycroft has them speak around the desired topic. Quite clever really," John took a moment to look around at some of the photos, spying her boss and her employee's in several other captured moments. "What do you see in these photos John?"

He realized it was one of those tests Sherlock always gave him, where he knew the answer before even asking, but was curious to see if John could come to the same conclusion. In all honesty, John didn't know what he saw. He was a bit out of practice with his observing, and Sherlock had managed to catch him completely off guard with this new hobby of his. "I see Avery."

"Not quite what I was looking for, but not completely incorrect either," He walked back over to John, placing his hands on his shoulders while steering him over to the wall by his bed with force. "If you want to see Avery, I will have to teach you. Pay attention."

"Okay?" John shrugged while focusing on what his flatmate was saying.

"The Avery you have come to know is a ruse. Her personality built around her job title is a lie," His long finger pointed to pictures of Avery coming out from her building. John frowned, not seeing anything different which promoted a sigh from Sherlock. "Her clothing John. Notice her clothing, and the expression on her face."

John did as he said, first noticing the colour of her clothes, much of it bright and feminine unlike the drab black she always had to parade around in for her job. Though she wasn't flashing a smile in many of the photos, he could see an ease from the hardness that was always present in her eyes, and the contrast was now much easier to discern. "Alright, I'll admit I'm curious, even if I think having her followed is wrong. What do you think Mycroft's angle is for keeping her close?"

"A connection to myself. This has started since my return to the public, it cannot be anything else. Where he fails; I succeed," Sherlock said as he sat on his bed, hands folded together under his chin as he thought. "Such great lengths he has gone to hide it."

Sherlock started to mumble quietly to himself while John continued to be amazed at the impressive—though slightly terrifying—experiment he had created for himself. This was the first one not conducted in the kitchen, and the test subject was a living person. John wondered if he should be concerned, but nothing had gotten out of hand yet, so he would remain silent on the sidelines until his intervention was absolutely necessary. "Well, just hope no more little cameras have been placed in your room, otherwise you've already been discovered."

Sherlock grunted in reply as John left him to his Mind Palace. It had been a long day, with much to process, and he needed a good night's rest before they were to wrap up the other case. A lot of things ran through his mind as he walked back into the heart of the flat, mainly about Avery and what she was hiding. A part of himself felt that there was a deep story behind her sadness, and he worried what they would stumble across if they pushed too far, though he suspected Mycroft would intervene long before that would happen. The brothers were still very much children when it came to interacting with one another, and it was territory John had a difficult time inserting himself in because of their high level of genius. He sprawled out onto the couch, tucking the Union Jack pillow under his head as he stared up at the ceiling, finding humor in the reversed situation. Normally it was Sherlock keeping post on the couch, but not tonight. He fell asleep with his phone on his chest, waiting for a message that never came.


	11. Tis The Season

" _Avery is gone."_

Sherlock allowed for Garon's words to keep replaying over in his head as he stood in the middle of her vacant flat. Gone; there wasn't a better word to sum up the whereabouts of Avery, or her personal items. He was informed of her missing in action after sending Garon out yet again for another following. He had turned up back at their flat with no images, and a confused shrug as he explained what he had, or rather hadn't, come across. With much interest and vexation, Sherlock had been out the door with the photographer and his blogger right behind.

"Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye," Sherlock muttered under his breath as his eyes traced the blank walls of her flat. "Oh well, that is a shame."

"What, where did she go?" John asked, his tone a touch snippy as he stood in the middle of her living room. He had been in a state of reserved distress since Garon had come to them with the news, feelings of sentiment and concern for their head of security no doubt.

"No need for alarm John. It should be obvious to you by now that Avery is quite safe," His hands clenched together at his sides, nonetheless aggravated by the turn of events as they pieced themselves together before his sight. "There is no sign of a struggle, though I would say everything has been taken in a rush. She has left, been moved somewhere else by my brother."

"It figures," John replied sardonically. "I knew something was off when she didn't show with Wendi two days ago."

"Yes, there was that," He said, voicing the incomplete thought. "Although she did manage to say goodbye, if you recall the other night at our flat."

"Yes, but I didn't think goodbye actually meant that she'd just check out," John huffed before looking guilty. "I wasn't too kind to her before she left."

"Don't waste energy dwelling on words John, she would have already forgotten something as small as that."

John sent him a frosty look before turning back to Garon. "Have you been to anywhere else she might have gone to? Her work or Mycroft's office?"

" _Vicarious_  is closed during daylight hours, and I couldn't really get close enough to the Diogenes club. Also, I think your brother knows what I've been doing." Garon said, the last bit meant for Sherlock as his face filled with worry.

"Oh he undoubtedly knows all about you." Sherlock said with much certainty. There wasn't a soul who had entered his life— for however short a time—that Mycroft did not immediately look into.

"I would check my mantle, tables and picture frames if I were you. He's rather fond of spying," John added, "Consider yourself lucky he hasn't stopped you on the street for a little chat. I was first offered money to watch Sherlock for him, which I refused of course."

Garon looked slightly mortified if not a bit peeved to know his privacy could have been encroached upon. He had gotten by well enough for Sherlock, what with the strange happenings in Baker Street since his arrival, but Mycroft's intrusion appeared to be where he drew the line. Some people were so sensitive. "Well I've been neglecting my other job to do this, and I really don't want to get sacked from the Yard, so I wouldn't say yes to that offer either."

Sherlock made a noise to voice his opinion. "You and John, both so earnest. What does that get you I wonder?"

"A clear conscience." Came John's swift reply.

Garon didn't look as if he agreed with that answer. "I don't think a clear conscience exists for anyone anymore, but getting to sleep a little easier certainly doesn't hurt."

"Who has time to worry about sleeping?" Sherlock's hand traced the ruined spot on Avery's wall as he spoke aloud. She had never got around to fixing the damaged drywall, nor had she been given the time to hassle him over paying the fee. Her vanishing act put up a barrier in his game, momentarily barring him as he thought of new ways around the roadblock. Mycroft really did have the worst timing.

"What happened to her wall there?" Garon inquired.

"Sherlock happened," John answered with a dry chuckle. "I wasn't here for it, but you've seen the walls in our flat."

"Time to go," Sherlock declared abruptly, looking up from his phone. An eagerness for a new setting prompted his feet to make a sprint for the door, his destination the morgue after receiving word from Lestrade. The entryway of Avery's flat was as snug a fit as the last time he had been there, sharing in her space for a moment or two when she had turned around and used one of his tricks back on him rather cunningly. He had known then that Avery Nash was someone to take notice of, though he had made the mistake of turning a blind eye on her for a split second, causing his carefully crafted experiment to come unhinged. "Come John, the last details of our case still need to be tied."

"We're going to St. Bart's now?" John's tone was laced with incredibility, the likes of which he used often when out on a mad dash.

"It's where we would otherwise be. Don't let a small change in circumstance boggle you." Sherlock called as he flew out the door. He needn't look back to know they would follow without question. Despite the one case now wrapping up, his mind was far from the reaches of boredom. What had started as a game had now become a chase, something he could easily set his mind to.

"Are you joining us Garon?" John asked from behind as they descended the stairs of the building.

"Just until we reach St. Bart's," He informed while adjusting the strap of his camera. "It's back to work with Greg after, and I still have to talk with forensics."

Sherlock caught them a cab just as they met up with him at the pavement. As much as he favoured the benefits of Garon's usefulness, he did not like having him as their third traveling partner for any portion of the day. He was rather large, and it made the cab rides rather cramped as he had first discovered upon their departure from Baker Street. Sherlock ended up once again with his side forced against the door, John pressed into his arm in the middle of the cab. His face conveyed a small amount of annoyance, which Garon noticed and tried to apologize for with quick words he stumbled over. "Oh I—sorry about this."

Sherlock was about to retort with a sharp deduction if it wasn't for the elbow jab he received in his side from John. "Not a problem. At least one of us finds time for regular meals and exercise." What exercise; they ran around London constantly, wasn't that enough? "Real exercise." John added as if guessing his thoughts.

"Dull." Sherlock commented dryly while the cab headed in the direction of St. Bart's.

The car became ensconced in a dreadfully awkward silence. Sherlock took that time to go over the last visit with Avery in his mind once again. She had been closed off, and somewhat distraught, not giving him many of her words, much less her gaze. A sign of avoidance, instructions from Mycroft, but for what reason? He had not been there to witness her last conversation with John, but he had watched her retreating from Baker Street, and there had been subtle signs of surrender.

From the corner of his vision, he saw John playing with his phone absentmindedly, fingers ghosting over the keys with apprehension. "Her number is no longer in service. I guess that's why she never answered any of my messages."

"All part of erasing her from having ever been here." Sherlock told his flatmate bluntly.

"Are you going to search for her?" Garon asked in a hushed whisper to prevent the cabbie from eavesdropping. Highly unlikely considering they were the ears of London, much like his homeless network was the eyes. "I mean, it seems like this might be a common occurrence for someone like her."

"A fair observation, but could use for more sound reasoning to back up the statement."

Garon grew an embarrassed flush for his attempt, and turned his eyes back out the window while John's turned towards his again. "Are we looking for her? What is the goal here Sherlock, I feel like I might go mental if this is all for nothing."

"I wouldn't waste my own time for something of hollow value."

"Yes you're very frugal with your time."

He let John's sarcastic comment wash over him without any effect, his focus already shifting to the hospital as they pulled in beside it. Wordlessly he stepped out from the cab. Now that most of the snow accumulation had already dissipated throughout the week, he only had to worry about salt stains getting on the bottom of his trousers and shoes as he made his way through the slush and muck. Tramples of footprints littered the pavement, the city bustling with the impending holiday upon them. John hadn't yet spoken of Christmas plans, which suited him well enough. If he didn't bring up the matter, there was the off chance that they could cruise through the holiday all together without any more parties taking place in their flat. He would continue to remain silent, even with however large he already knew the chance was in his mind of festivities taking place.

John and Garon caught up from behind, trailing the messy snow in with them on the freshly polished floors, discernable by the chemical scent and the glossy sheen. He led them straight to the doors of the morgue without stopping, finding Molly there with Lestrade, and to his somewhat dismay, Anderson. They were huddled over the cold body, everything on the corpse shielded, save for the face where the cover had been drawn back. The smell of formaldehyde was strong today, more than usual, and it almost made him grin as he approached.

"You brought Garon with you; good," Lestrade commented as he looked up from the body. "Paperwork is still piling up, and the press is on us about what really happened with this case."

"We know," John cut in. "They've been waiting for us outside Baker Street for the last two days now for questions. They've even bombarded Garon with them."

"I've done my best to avoid them. I probably have less answers to give them than any of you," He said, shedding his coat while he once again was wearing a tight fitted, horizontal stripped T-shirt underneath, this one purple and orange this time. He had them in every colour, a collection to rival John's jumpers. The thin material stretched over his muscular torso, looking as if it might rip at the seams as his arms flexed. He shuffled over to stand next to Anderson, always polite as he went. "Excuse me Molly."

"Oh sorry," She flushed, her eyes not so subtly going over his impressive physique before they widened as she caught herself staring. "Erm—how are you Garon?" She stammered.

He gave a funny look. "Alright I guess."

Lestrade gained an annoyed look for everyone to see, clearing his throat as he looked at Molly. "Aren't you supposed to be meeting Tom for lunch soon?"

Her face grew serious from Lestrade's snippy remark, muttering unintelligibly under her breath while the blush slowly faded from her face. Rolling his eyes with contempt, Sherlock moved towards the head of the corpse on the table, wanting to get to the issue of why he was there instead of some petty attraction to Garon that every single female who came into contact with him seemed to possess. "Everyone take a step back now." He demanded calm but sternly.

Collectively the surrounding group did as he asked, though Anderson somewhat slower than the others, looking reluctant to be ordered around. Ignoring every distraction around him, Sherlock focused on the body, or rather the fatal wound that had been the direct cause of death. The murdered turned victim was laid out before him, the left side of his face nearly destroyed from the exit wound of the bullet that had penetrated through the back of his skull. It had happened so suddenly outside the building of the practice, a moment that he had gone over in his head constantly the past two days, trying to find missing details he might have overlooked.

The serial killer, as he had concluded for himself days before, had been the young man working reception at the desk. Taylor Greenly would not have left her flat in the middle of the night to meet with an established older gentleman for a midnight tryst, and all three of the Optometrists were happily married to women they would not dare to think to commit adultery against. Lestrade had gone in with Wendi, under the impression that he was to be scoping out the Optometrists when Sherlock had failed to mention the small detail of it being the other way around. Purposefully done of course, as it had given him the chance to approach the front desk, dragging a confused John with him who had also been under the assumption that they were not supposed to enter the building.

"Marcus Shepard was a schizophrenic," Lestrade said from where he stood a few steps back from the table of the deceased. "He was hired at the practice because he was the nephew to the wife of Doctor Wighem. Apparently because of hospitalizations in the mental health ward in his past, his aunt was concerned for him to be out at work on his own, so she asked her husband to give him this position to keep an eye on him. Wighem assured me when I spoke with him that his nephew had been taking Zyprexa for his condition."

"We're still awaiting the results of the toxicology report to find any traces of Olanzapine in his system." Molly added.

"The results will only conclude what we already know, and that is that he obviously hadn't been," Sherlock said simply. "He was thin, significantly lacking in any muscle density. The obvious reason why he used Diprivan to subdue his victims. A healthy woman might have been able to fight him off otherwise."

"But who would be cruel enough to want to attract this type of mind, especially to confuse and warp him until convincing him to commit multiple murders?"

Lestrade's quiet question had Sherlock's eyes falling back to the gaping wound in the face of the corpse, it looking like a rotted out bite of an apple that had been left out in the sun too long. The left eye was gone from existence. It had been completely shattered by the bullet as it had passed through the back of his skull, and out through the front left eye socket. The hole of the fatal wound glared up at him angrily. Left over muscle and tissue was coloured black and red like candle wax, with pieces of grey matter spattered about in the hollow from something else entirely that should have been whole.

_Marcus had been shot out on the street in public after they had apprehended him at the practice. He had tried to evade capture by leaping over the front desk, armed with nothing but a ballpoint pen that he had wielded like a sword. After lunging at Sherlock, John had jumped in from behind, delivering Marcus with a swift punch to the kidney, prompting him to drop his makeshift weapon long enough for them to imprison him down on the floor. The loud commotion they had caused—because they hadn't thought to keep quiet—had alerted Lestrade in the examination room to come running with a pair of handcuffs in his grasp, with Wendi hot on his trail._

"He meant little to his investors. Hardly a second thought for the way they disposed of him." He said unflinchingly.

_The shot had come without sound, not a crack or boom of an eruption in the air. Silent. They had escorted Marcus outside to an awaiting police car. Members of the Yard were then scattered around the pavement, Sherlock walking ahead with John, while Lestrade had followed behind with Wendi glued to his side. Time had slowed, the world flowing before Sherlock like pictures in a flip-book, and he swore he could have almost made out the individual pixels. Marcus, with his hands still cuffed behind him, had turned sideways in preparation to slide into the opened car door presented to him. He had fallen flat onto the ground suddenly with no one, not even the officer escorting him, understanding why until Wendi had let out a shriek. It was the bloodcurdling kind, one only a woman could produce, and it had managed to freeze the marrow in his bones, causing him for a brief moment to be relieved Avery had not been present to witness it. Pairs of eyes had darted to Wendi in succession to see the front of her flowery blouse painted in a shower of red. Lestrade and the escorting officer had also caught some of the splatter, droplets of viscous crimson flecked over the skin of their necks and cheeks. The air outside had been stagnant on that December morning, and as Sherlock had searched around to the buildings in the distance, he could find nothing._

"From the trajectory of where the bullet made its target, we have determined the building the shooter was in. Unfortunately it is accessible to the public, a place of business, and the video surveillance didn't reveal anyone walking through the corridors with a rifle," Lestrade said as he crossed his arms in contemplation. "Regarding the matters that Mr. Shepard was dabbling in, I think it is wise to consider that the security working in that building could have been bribed with a generous sum to keep quiet."

"Yeah, but they somehow knew the Yard was going to the practice with full plans to make an arrest on someone. How is that possible?" John inquired aloud.

The locked coffers in his Mind Palace were shacking, threatening to unhinge in an inundation of memories that he had hoped to forget. John by the pool with explosives strapped to his chest. The red dot of a laser. That smarmy smile, and megalomaniac frame of mind. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John. The threat to burn the heart out of him. St. Bart's, the roof. It was all too much, and he felt himself sputter for breath, coughing suddenly as if he had inhaled a toxic cloud of smoke.

"Sherlock!" John's voice yelling at him brought him back to the now, with eyes of every colour scrutinizing his sudden lapse of silence before he had choked on a big gulp of air. He let his face fall into a flat expression of nothing discernable to be read, straightening his almost always perfect posture (except for when he would slouch in his armchair) while he glanced back at John. "Did you just realise something?" His doctor asked.

"Nothing concrete." He said brusquely.

Lestrade took a step out of place, looking haggard from his work, but not defeated. "We'll continue our investigation into finding the shooter. NSY is also carefully monitoring surgeries throughout the city. There seems to be shorter waitlists for corneal transplants. I've been looking into it ever since you came to my office that day with Avery. Speaking of whom, how has she been? I've noticed she hasn't been around you two the last few days."

John shared a not so discreet look with Garon, while Sherlock let his face remain impassive. "She's been on holiday with her family." He lied smoothly.

"Really,  _Vicarious_  let her go? I can't imagine that place can run smoothly without her," Lestrade shrugged, seemly unfazed by the news. "Oh well, tis the season I suppose."

"Yes." He answered blankly, his mind already creeping on to other things. In all the excitement he had been caught up with in the last two days, he had nearly forgotten the establishment she worked for. Only nearly of course. Small details such as that never strayed far from his mind, and he was suddenly feeling the need to make a generous visit to thank Wendi for her assistance while she was at work.

"Text me when you have something." Spinning on his heel, he started back towards the exit of the morgue, trusting John to follow behind him.

"You're not coming back with us Garon?" He heard John ask from where he stood in the middle of the morgue, between the doors and the metal slab that held the dead Marcus Shepard.

"I can't. I've still got work to do, but I'll chat you up later okay?"

"Sure thing," John said, narrowly avoiding a collision with Donavan as he made his way after the Consulting Detective who had paused to wait for him. In the distance before either of them had strode too far away from the morgue, they could hear Sally give Garon a flustered greeting. Apparently Molly wasn't the only one charmed by the new forensic photographer. "Oh I would have loved to have seen Anderson's face just now. Should have stayed two seconds longer."

"It only proves women share the same guilt for vanity as men," Sherlock commented while flicking up his collar. "Though in Anderson's case, I think he can expect less visits with Donavan on her knees."

"Sherlock Holmes just made a crude comment; I think the order of the world just became distorted." John said in a bark of laughter.

He pulled a face at his blogger as they stepped outside the hospital. "I can be crude."

"Yes, usually accidentally because of something case related. Not in the usual teasing sense like just now."

"There's a difference?"

"One I don't want to get into or you'll never do it again, and I'll miss out on moments like this."

Not feeling as petty as he normally would to continue the debate, he opted for silence as he hailed them a cab for Baker Street. John was shuffling around with the extra breathing room that he had back now that Garon had left them, but once he settled, he immediately went back to speaking. "So, do you want to tell me what that was really about back there?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean John." He replied evasively.

"Oh come off it. I saw your face the moment I brought up the coincidence between the Yard being at the practice, and the shooter having the knowledge of that. A lot of people in organized crime, including those with ties to black marketers, could have hired a hitman."

"I never know what it is you see in my face," He let his frown show this time as he was spurred into the conversation. "But the timing John. Why now? A serial killer who claims the eyes of his victims, and then sells them illegally for profit? It makes for too small a thing as compared to what we've witnessed before. There's something larger at work here."

"Oh Sherlock," John hung his head back against the seat, speaking exhausted as if he had just come from a marathon. "He's dead. You and I both know that."

"But for how long?" He looked his blogger clear in the eyes with nothing to hide. "From your perspective, after myself and The Woman, that should be enough proof that everything is not always as it appears. It has all become trite."

"Death has become trite, is that what you're saying?"

"Well hasn't it?"

It was John's turn to frown, and he lost his chance to retort as they pulled up before Baker Street. Sherlock took a quick second to reflect on the last two years before he made it to the door of their building. After everything he had put forth into dismantling Moriarty's criminal empire—the physical strain, deceiving his friends, the crushing loneliness—he thought he was finally free to go back to the way things were, only to realise it wouldn't be that simple. Mycroft had assured him that it was safe to return, and he was certain enough himself to believe that. They couldn't both be wrong, could they?

"Sherlock, you're doing it again." John piped up beside him as they stood outside by the door, long after the cab had drove away.

He pushed his key into the slot, unbolting the door as he walked stiffly inside. He took the stairs at his normal pace, his footsteps making loud thuds as they collided against the creaking wood. Something foreign in their flat that had not been there before they had left caught his eye, and he halted in the doorway, John nearly walking into his back behind him at his sudden pause in step.

"What is it?" John asked in annoyance, trying to peek over his shoulder.

He took a long step into the room, looming over the brightly wrapped box as he pushed at it with his index finger. "What do you think this is?"

"Well, judging from the bow, I'd say a Christmas present," John said smartly, appearing unfazed as he shrugged off his coat and hung it up by the peg on the door. "Why, what do you think it is?"

"It could be any number of malicious things," He muttered before standing straight up to shout. "Mrs. Hudson!"

There were scuttling footsteps from downstairs, and the sound of a door opening before dainty footfalls started up towards their flat. A moment later their landlady appeared, a curious but tired expression on her face as she greeted them. "What is it dear?"

He indicated to the offending object that remained in its place on the table. "When did this get here?"

"The postman brought it early this morning, shortly after you had gone. He said it was for you, with no return address," She smiled pleasantly at the package, her cheeks a soft rose colour. "Oh isn't it lovely. You're the first one to receive a gift this year."

John laughed at his horrified expression. "I'm afraid he doesn't share that sentiment Mrs. Hudson. I think he's under the impression that someone is trying to bomb him."

"I never said bomb," He refuted. "It could be something riddled with anthrax spores."

John and Mrs. Hudson shared a look behind his back that he was privy to through the mirror over the mantle, but chose to ignore as he continued to deduce the package. He was standing stock-still, even long after his landlady had turned out from the room to return downstairs. John let out an audible sigh, shifting on the couch as he waited. "Well, are you going to open it or not?"

He knelt down close to the wrapped box, inhaling deeply to see if it was anything pungent contained inside, but frowned when smelling only the paper and the adhesive from the tape. Carefully he reach out with one hand, tugging with his finger underneath the fold of paper to see if it would tear with the minimal amount of force used by him. As he continued to fuss with his task, he felt someone brush up against the side of his coat, tracking hair on his Belstaff as she leapt up onto the table beside the mysterious gift. Lucy didn't seem to share his apprehension, because she crawled up upon the package, chewing on the bow between her sharp teeth as if it was the bones of a fish. He acted quickly without thinking, plucking her up from under her legs, bringing her to his chest protectively.

"Oh you unintelligent animal. You're lucky I decided to save your life from a—"

"Handgun?" John interjected. He had managed to take the package from the table before Sherlock could protest, peaking inside as he had torn off the wrappings and the lid. "A Smith and Wesson 38 special, and with the five inch barrel too."

"Really?" He dropped Lucy on his armchair, prompting a hiss from the feline before she scurried off the piece of furniture. Stepping over the wrappings on the floor, Sherlock peered over the lip of the box, taking the revolver before John could put his hands on it. He had seen the chrome finish and the coal black butt of that particular handgun before, and it fit into his hand the same way as it had the first time he had held it. "Well this is something. A Christmas gift sent in confidence, what a clever way of reaching out."

"There's a phone in here as well," John said, reaching in to turn the mobile on. "The number is no longer in use, and there's nothing stored on it, but the lock screen reads 'Happy Holidays'."

"That part is meant for you."

John's eyes widened with realisation. "You mean this is from Avery?"

"Correct John. This is the exact same revolver I fired at her wall."

"She certainly has a cute sense of humor. I guess she didn't want there to be any bad blood between us after she disappeared." John said as his thumb traced over the screen of the phone.

"I would like to have her on our side given the state of things," He looked over the 38 in his hand, something close to a smile threatening to break out on his face. "What do you say John, would you like to find our head of security?"

"But we don't even have the first idea of where to look . . . or do you?"

"We know her last place of business, and the few people she associated with."

"Not to mention the past few weeks of her life story are up on display in your bedroom," John pointed out casually while fighting a smirk. "But hang on, why did you lie to Lestrade and say she was on holiday? He could have been of assistance."

"No, she's no longer in the country."

"I won't even ask how you know that."

John sat back on the couch, fiddling with the phone in his hand while Sherlock finally got around to shedding his coat and scarf. With the weight of the handgun still in his palm, he continued to pace the floor back and forth repeatedly, placing together pieces of his strategy in his head. He hated to think there was nothing more to be done that day, but the boredom was already setting in, along with a bad ache for nicotine.

Taking two long strides, he quickly found his patches, slapping two on his arm before he was overcome with irritation to bark out demands for his secret stash of cigarettes (that didn't exist). He exhaled in relief as the subtle smoothness of the nicotine patches were already bleeding into his system, fixing his addled nerves. The boredom still wasn't cured, but looking down at what lied in his hand he knew he could rectify that quickly, and he lifted his arm up straight, clicking off the safety before firing at the wall. He watched as John's hands flew to his ears, covering them from the loud sound as pieces of drywall fell in flakes to the floor. His flatmate shot him an incredulous look without speaking, and he grinned back in return as he heard the door downstairs slam opened, their landlady's usually soft voice carrying up the flight of stairs as she sternly scolded.

" _Sherlock Holmes, you are paying for that wall!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the first case came to an interesting end. Keep it in the back of your mind for later, because its conclusion is important. Now Avery has been moved someplace else, damn that Mycroft (who we love anyway) More on Garon, I love the mixed feelings you guys have on him by the way! Let me know your thoughts!


	12. The Importance of Work

Winter had officially settled in London, it bringing more snow and sleet every day, blanketing the rooftops in thick quilts of white. It was Christmas Eve morning, and John was out on an early start already with Sherlock. Avery had made a silent place for herself in the Consulting Detective's mind, unaware of that as she was, and they had been pursuing her trail ever since her gifts had come to Baker Street a week ago. Much to John's dismay, and his flatmate's, the trail was running cold, faster than water running out from a hose in the middle of summer. They stood outside where  _Vicarious_  had been, the place now desolate and empty, as everything had been cleared out upon their discovery of it being vacated five nights before. When Sherlock had expressed that he wanted to return to the property that morning over coffee, John couldn't find a reasonable enough argument not to, and so he was right there with him.

"Are we allowed to go in?" John asked, his breath turning to icy fog before his mouth as he spoke into the cold wind.

"No harm breaking into a vacant building, it just means there is nothing to steal," Sherlock said as he worked on the lock at the front door. The space was for rent again, indicated by the large sign plastered in the front window. Someone had already been by to remove the neon light sign of  _Vicarious_ , leaving little evidence behind that would have ever alluded to it being a nightclub.

John stood guard by Sherlock as he waited for him to pry open the lock, freezing through to his skin as he waited. He bounced on his feet, trying anything to keep his blood pumping before it turned solid in his veins. His impatience was stacking up, and his brow was growing heavy with a frown as he watched Sherlock, suspecting that he did things like this on purpose sometimes, just to get a rise out of him. He was worried other people were watching, as public as the building was. "Christ sake Sherlock, are you almost done? I could have broken in through the window by now."

"If you knew anything about the art of lock picking John, you would know that it requires a steady hand, the proper tools, and patience," As he finished saying that, the lock clicked opened and he popped opened the door, only for the alarm to sound off. The blaring sound radiated down the entire street, alerting the presence of others nearby as their faces peered out the windows to spy the commotion. Sherlock barely frowned, unperturbed by the turn of events. "Oh I forgot there was an alarm. An insignificant thing that, for we won't be long."

Sherlock strode into the building unconcernedly, and as John followed, he wished he had half that amount of indifference in such a situation. Honestly, he detested any loud ringing sound, be it from a siren or an alarm clock, and he was finding it a struggle to just be in that place now as the sound bellowed around them. He pressed forward regardless, following behind Sherlock who surveyed the establishment with disappointment. John could understand why. It was literally stripped down to the last bit of hook and wire, with only the dark tones of the walls looking back at them. The counter of the bar had been completely removed, along with the tables and chairs. The scent of alcohol and women's perfume lingered, soaked into walls and floors after copious amounts of it being present night after night.

"They even took the curtain." He heard Sherlock mutter under the ruckus of the alarm.

With the main room no longer divided, Sherlock headed straight through, back to the hallway where the offices and staff lounge had been. John didn't know what he hoped to find, as the place had been stripped so thoroughly, it was likely they would leave in the same manner as they came. Well maybe not exactly the same; he had it pictured there would be a police car waiting for them somewhere. It felt like the case had come around full circle as they ended up back here, only John was more despondent now that he didn't get to share the news with Avery that Taylor's killer had been captured, and killed. He wondered what her opinion would have been on that, as he had a difficult time reading her. Perhaps the deducing was better left for Sherlock.

They went back down the hallway, walking straight past the door of Avery's office which had John scratching his head in confusion. "Wait, aren't you going to look in her office?"

"She had less in there when we were first introduced, John. There's nothing there that I'm looking for." Sherlock stopped at the only door they had not walked through the first time of their visit to the nightclub; Max's office. The thick wood of the door hit the wall with a thud when it swung opened as they found it unlocked, and only because there was nothing inside, save for the light bulb in the ceiling fan. There was no desk left behind, and the filing cabinet was without paperwork. Sherlock's hands patted the place from top to bottom, inside and out, front to back, all the while John was watching him.

"What are you looking for?"

Sherlock stopped to lean against the metal cabinet, frustration brewing in his eyes. "A business card. Max Renke is our best lead for a chance to locate Avery, but for the moment I have no way of getting in contact with him."

"I should have gotten Wendi's number when I had the chance," John mumbled with regret, feeling utterly useless to Sherlock at the moment. "We should step out soon. There's nothing here, and I don't feel like being detained on Christmas Eve."

Sherlock's eyes hardened while the look on his face softened with disappointment for the fruitless efforts of their search. There was no given reason for the sudden shutdown of  _Vicarious_ , and the strangeness that surrounded the operation of the club continued to grow unparalleled, like the giant mounds that termites built. "I need to find out all I can about Max." Sherlock said as he pulled out his phone, managing a sidelong glance back to him.

John agreed with a solemn head nod, running a gloved hand down the back of his neck in light thought. "I suppose that's our best bet."

He walked ahead of Sherlock as they traced their footsteps back through the club. It didn't come as too much of a surprise to John when he stepped out through the door, walking through the distracting alarm, to find two police cars waiting for them outside. The officers were at the ready for what were more likely two armed criminals rather than he and Sherlock. Speaking of whom, his flatmate didn't even acknowledge the officers until he pulled his head out of his phone, indifference to be found there as gave them his minimal amount of attention.

"Contact Detective Inspector Lestrade. He can confirm we're no burglars," John said, handing over his phone to the nearest officer who gave him a queer look. John took a step back in avoidance, as well as to rejoin Sherlock who had managed to remain silent for far longer than he was accustomed to. "Did you find anything out about Max?"

"Only that it is impossible for his last name to be Renke."

John's mouth flew opened, nearly falling to the pavement, and he was about to retort if it wasn't for the officer shoving his phone back in his face. "Here, the inspector wants a word with you."

Cringing, he took his phone back, pressing it up to his ear. "Lestrade?"

" _Why for the love of God did it have to be today of all days? It's Christmas Eve John, I would have expected you to keep a firm leash on him today. Instead I find out you are breaking and entering on public property."_

"I'm not his caretaker," John replied waspishly before taking a moment to calm himself. "And besides, I . . . might have agreed to go with him."

" _Oh that's wonderful. Mind telling me why you broke into Vicarious? I recognized the address when I was told."_

"It's not  _Vicarious_  anymore. It was shut down, that's what we were investigating."

" _Shut down?"_  Lestrade remarked in surprise.  _"Maybe we shouldn't be speaking about this over the phone."_

John couldn't help but agree. "Yeah, it's a long story. Will we be seeing you tonight at Baker Street?"

" _Nowhere else to be, but I'm looking forward to it,"_  Lestrade replied, and John could hear the gloom in his tone that had been there since his divorce.  _"I'll see you later, but John, do keep an eye on him will you?"_

"Don't I always?" John murmured before he heard the faint click of the call coming to an end. He pocketed his phone before looking up and realising the officers were standing around him and Sherlock in waiting. "What now?"

"Will you be needing a ride back sirs?" The one officer asked politely.

Sherlock shot one derisive look at the police car before answering for them both. "No, we'd rather walk." He told them bluntly that left no room for debate.

The officer frowned as if offended before he went back to usher the rest of his troops away with him. John kept a watchful eye as the cars pulled away, until they disappeared from sight entirely. He swiveled on his heel, turning to look at Sherlock with a frustrated look. "We'd rather walk?"

"Walk, or a cab. Our usual steps to be taken John. I find a sudden hitch in routine to be unwelcome."

"Lestrade is annoyed with you, as am I," John said, but the irritation in his voice was already fading. "So I guess you didn't have one of his badges with you today? Could have done some good against these officers to avoid that phone call."

"I seem to have misplaced them. Unfortunate turn of events." Sherlock muttered as he began walking up the street.

"Oh don't worry, I'm sure you can always steal another one," John piped in as he caught up beside him, feeling inquisitive once more. "What were you saying before about Max?"

Sherlock appeared relieved by the change in discussion. "I was waiting for you to return to that matter, and drop the dull drivel you were rambling on about. From my quick search of his name, I found that there was no Max Renke listed. Stranger still that an established nightclub had no website to promote business. The number for  _Vicarious_ , though now inactive, is still listed. It had only been operational for four months, a curiously short amount of time for a thriving nightclub with high ratings."

John absorbed the information as quickly as Sherlock had enthusiastically proclaimed it. "So if Max Renke isn't his true name, well that's just going to find making contact with him a whole lot more difficult." Considering that they couldn't turn to Mycroft—who would occasionally run background checks on problem cases for them—John didn't know what their next move would be, and it seemed more likely that they wouldn't be seeing Avery anytime soon. "Hang on, does this mean Avery's identity was a lie as well?"

"I've considered that, and it is at least prudent to consider the likelihood that her surname is falsified. No need to hold importance in first names, as common as they are."

"Well not in yours or your brother's case." John said matter-of-factly with a smile.

"That's clever John." Sherlock retorted as he called out for a cab, leaving them with no choice but to return home. At least they could prepare for their guest for the party, or so John would be, and he followed after Sherlock into the cab for Baker Street.

* * *

The evening had come, and with the passing time so did their guests as they had begun to arrive at their flat. John worked with Mrs. Hudson to do the best they could to put on a pleasant Christmas Eve. So far, everything mirrored their previous Christmas party that they had held a few years back, only without the reminder of Irene Adler, or Sherlock hassling Molly over her transparent feelings; two absences John was glad to be rid of. That wasn't to say everything was going off without a hitch, for there still were Sherlock's blunt comments he made to everyone, as well as the startling appearance of Tom, and his resemblance to a certain Consulting Detective. It was still better than John could have hoped for anyway, and he accepted the evening for what it was.

"It's a curious thing, that nightclub of yours. After talking with you, I decided to check into it, and I couldn't find anything on Max Renke." Lestrade commented as he took small sips from his glass.

John stood across from him, talking low under the sound of lucid Christmas carols that played off from Sherlock's violin. He had made the choice himself to confide in Lestrade over the mysterious disappearance of  _Vicarious_  and its employee, if only to assure himself that he wasn't going mad. "Sherlock is sure that it was a false identity."

"Could explain why my searching was in vain. It doesn't explain how there was a record for Avery under file though. I assume that bit about her on holiday with family was a bunch of rubbish then?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. We weren't sure then on how serious the situation was. Lesson learned," John said, wiping his hand against his jumper as it became covered in a nervous sweat. "Avery's record was likely put there by Sherlock's brother. I can't really explain why. Actually, I've never been good at describing his job at all."

Lestrade grunted in understanding, his eyes surfacing to the door as their last guest arrived. "Oh hell." He cursed lowly.

John followed his line of sight to the door, seeing Garon smiling brightly in one of his stripped shirts, red and white like a candy cane. Grinning openly, John turned back to the inspector with a brow raised. "Well this is something; that Sherlock Holmes would tolerate a person that Greg Lestrade would not?!"

"Leave it be." Lestrade warned, tipping back his glass before walking away to get a refill from the table.

John watched him go, narrowly escaping the forensic photographer as he approached, determination etched all over his face. "Hello Garon." John greeted.

"Sorry I'm a little late for the gathering, but there's actually something I have to tell you and Sherlock. There was a woman waiting outside by the door when I got in, and I invited her up here. She's waiting out by the door, I wasn't sure if it was alright to invite her in. Her name is Wendi if I recall."

"Oh," John cried out in surprise, standing up straighter as he set his drink down. "Sherlock, Wendi's here!"

The bow screeched to a halt on his violin, sending the flat into silence as he staggered about with excitement in his eyes. He set the instrument down by his armchair before walking through the parting room, stepping over the coffee table as he went. "Finally something worthwhile about this redundant holiday. Where is she?"

Mrs. Hudson looked appalled by his slandering of the holiday, while John could hear Molly's distinct whisper, asking quietly who this 'Wendi' was. On both accounts they were ignored by Sherlock, as he continued his way until stopping before him and Garon. The photographer's eyes widened at the abrupt display of Sherlock's exuberant enthusiasm, pointing towards the door. "She's outside."

"Come John, surely you can afford to leave these dull festivities for a moment." Sherlock said, not giving him much of a choice.

He followed him out of the flat, noticing their guests were all trying to peak around the doorway curiously before he shut them in. Taking the stairs, he already found Sherlock at the bottom, facing Wendi who gave a shy smile. She was much different than the call girl John remembered from the club. She was wearing a thick, sage green pea coat to stave off the bite of winter, contrasting with her red hair resting flat on her shoulders. Her face was clean of make-up, another thing that continued the new trend of her being void of her usual primping, and John could see that she was anxious to be there. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting your good time. I realise I haven't spoken with you since the end of your case, so this probably seems abrupt."

"Your timing couldn't be better," Sherlock assured. "You and the rest of  _Vicarious_  are without jobs for the time being, and your current visit has something along the lines to do with that."

"I don't know where Avery is," She said with a shrug. "I thought you'd ask, so it's best we get that out of the way now."

"That is . . . disappointing." Sherlock said, formulating the words slowly.

"You don't seem surprised about her missing." John said, trying to read her emotions while he left everything else to Sherlock.

"No. When the time came, everyone knew Avery would be the first to leave. Her situation wasn't quite the same as the rest of ours."

John was glad to see Sherlock frown in bafflement as well, from the words she was giving. "Leave what exactly?"

" _Vicarious_  of course. It was never meant to be permanent," She looked around the quiet hallway with unease, shifting on her boot clad feet that looked relatively dry. She had obviously taken a cab to get there. "I can't say anything more than that. Avery warned me before that your brother often has you followed or spied on Mr. Holmes, and it would jeopardise my future if I told you anything more."

"Wait, you know of Mycroft?" John exclaimed, his jaw nearly hitting the floor along with his popping eyeballs. It seemed a lot of that was reoccurring with him those days.

"Everyone at  _Vicarious_  did," Wendi said emotionlessly, already preparing herself to leave Baker Street. "This is goodbye I'm afraid. I'm moving out of London after I gained a recent change in my financial situation, but I wanted to come here first. I can't say I had the best of times around you two, what with witnessing a murder and being turned down flat by both of you."

She gave a flirtatious wink, and suddenly John was reminded of that woman who propositioned them all those weeks ago in the back hallway of  _Vicarious_ , showing a little less of her passive self that had him on edge. She strode to the front door, adjusting the strap of her handbag on her shoulder as she went. John and Sherlock followed after her, absentmindedly it seemed as they moved rigidly. Wendi stretched out her hand to open the door, pausing halfway between the entryway and stepping out into the cool evening air. She spun around, facing them with a mischievous look in her eyes, and a hunger that was startling. "Actually, there was one more thing, and I would regret it forever if I missed my chance."

John was going to ask her what that was, but had his question quickly answered for him as she pulled his flatmate in by the collar of his perfectly pressed shirt, smashing her lips into his. John covered his surprise by coughing, averting his eyes to anything around him while Wendi continued to passionately kiss Sherlock. No doubt the detective remained reserved and casual through the ordeal, if not a little anxious. John didn't really know anything about Sherlock's past activities with women, or if there even were any besides the case with The Woman.

An eternity later, or what felt like it, was more likely a few seconds when Wendi finally let go of her violent grip on Sherlock's button-up. John cleared his throat, not disguising his grin as he looked at the two of them, both completely wrecked by the kiss. Sherlock did his best to straighten out the wrinkles in his shirt, while Wendi held her fingers to her flushed lips. "Thank God for mistletoe, or else I might never have had the chance to kiss the one and only Sherlock Holmes."

John spotted the small, white berried plant dangling above the doorway, most likely left there by Mrs. Hudson to encourage the visitors they now had upstairs. When he looked ahead again, he noticed Wendi had left Baker Street, and was already folding herself into a parked cab by the pavement. Sherlock shut the door, his first move since being thoroughly snogged, to which he appeared unconcerned with.

"Wow," John said, clearing the air with light banter. "Shot in the dark, but I think she fancies you."

"Perhaps, but her actions were of a decoy for Mycroft in case he was watching, giving her the opportunity to give me this," He slipped a hand into the front pocket of his trousers, producing a small paper note. It was such a scandalous thought to ever conceive that a woman, other than Irene Adler, would dare lay her hands in such a way on the Consulting Detective, but John's pondering was quickly lost as Sherlock unravelled the paper, pleased with what he found there with a smirk. "We are now in the possession of Max's home address."

"Really?" John leapt forward to take a look at the scrawled note in Sherlock's hand.

"It's quite clever really. Max can't reach out, so he sends the girl in our debt to make one final visit."

"More like we're in her debt. Someone was murdered in front of her on our account." John reminded him.

"Extraneous details."

They started back up the steps slowly, the voices of their guests still discernable through the door to their flat. John couldn't help but throw one more jape at Sherlock, as he found the previous situation to still be highly humorous. "Well you certainly look like a man who just came from a serious snogging session. How was it?"

"Oh I suppose I'm not one to kiss-and-tell John." He chided as he wiped his mouth with the corner of his sleeve.

"That's a shame. You're always pestering me about my dating life, and it's rare I get to return the favour in kind. Maybe I should set you up with someone."

"My work John, it always comes first." Sherlock's tone was more serious, and John took that as a sign that the moment had passed.

John followed back into the flat, greeted by the cheerful voices of their friends, most of who were sloshed from drink after drink. They settled into the night with some questions asked, but those few faded quickly as the music of Sherlock's violin started up again. When the night grew late, and one by one each person filed out until it was down to the two of them again, John found himself frowning. His eyes burned from dryness as he continued to stare at the lights of the decorated tree, the tradition that had somehow carried over even after Sherlock had spent two years dead. He thought about his flatmate's words on the stairs, pondering and fretting over them more than he should have been. Perhaps it was the mood of the holiday getting to him, or at the very least the liquor, because he kept having visions of Sherlock by the very same tree all alone in their flat. Time hadn't stopped, and John knew one day in the future his life would move on from Baker Street, but at the present he was only now made aware of the blaring question; what would become of Sherlock Holmes when that day came?

* * *

Avery sat with her knees up to her chest, looking out the window of her current residence as the snow fell listlessly through the air. It was early evening, but the cold season made the sun set far earlier than she liked. Winter was inescapable it seemed, whether or not she was in London. She blamed that on Mycroft and his poor choice of destination. It never turned out to be a tropical island, but she always had a small hope that the next time would be different. The fact that there always was a next time worked to further sully her mood.

Her phone was placed before her, and try as she might, she couldn't stop to look away from it for long. Even the Christmas Eve snowfall wasn't enough of a distraction, and it was maddening waiting for her mobile to go berserk with an incoming call. Her hand rested numbly at her side, ready to make the snatch forward when the moment came. Just when she was about ready to give up on that—sleep was mighty tempting with nothing to occupy herself—the device thudded happily against the surface it rested on, and she had it pressed up to her ear in a flash.

"Hello?"

" _Only one ring, you must have been waiting for me,"_  Mycroft's mocking voice came out from the other end, and she smiled regardless of the insult.  _"Not getting lonely already are we?"_

"You know me Mycroft, I don't get lonely," It was a lie, and one not even good enough to convince herself. "Any word yet?"

" _The other party involved remains ignorant, but you best pray it remain that way. For now you are safe."_

She sighed, maneuvering in her spot to push her legs out in front of her. "That's a comfort coming from you."

" _It would never be my intention to deliberately comfort you, rest assured."_

"Oh heaven forbid," She teased dryly. "Do you have anything for me to do here? I say this at the risk of sounding like your brother; I'm bored."

" _If I did, would you allow me to give you proper payment?"_

The silence was heavy between them on the line. "No. Honestly Mycroft, sometimes you act as if you don't know me at all."

" _I know you almost better than anyone Avery. Almost anyone mind you."_

She hated to think about that one person, who knew her better than anyone, but it was unpreventable because of the trigger in Mycroft's words, and it put her off of the conversation. "Let me know if there's something I can do. I think I might go stir-crazy if I'm cooped up here any longer."

" _Go sight-seeing."_

Such was the answer she would have expected from him. "Merry Christmas Mycroft."

She heard him take a deep breath before he replied.  _"And a happy holiday to you Avery."_

"Thank you. I know that must have been hard for you to say, considering you hate Christmas."

" _Hate is such a negative term. I simply get through it like any other day of the year."_

"I know you do. Instead of being with friends or family, you are sitting alone at your desk during an ungodly hour with a drink, going over documents with a fountain pen."

" _And what colour is the ink?"_

"Black. One might even go as far as to say it match's your heart, but I know better."

" _Eerily close to the truth. Perhaps it is you who knows me too well. I'll have to keep my guard up, and have two eyes opened always."_

She smiled in spite of herself. "Goodnight Mycroft."

" _Until next we speak."_

The call ended with Avery still clutching to her phone. She waited an impossibly long amount of time before hitting the end feature on her phone, clinging on to the last bit of the conversation they'd had. Although the words weren't said, she knew he wanted her to remain safe, and she would consider herself rude not to follow that advice. She set her phone aside, and curled up by the window, continuing to ignore the bed, even as inviting as it was now that sleep was calling her name. The falling snow outside had an audience, and she watched it with droopy eyes as she thought about the two people who had impacted her life, compromising her in a significant way in just the few weeks they had been acquainted. She wondered briefly if her gifts had reached them. She mumbled lowly to herself before succumbing to slumber. "Merry Christmas, John and Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh more steps taken in the direction towards Avery, and we see she is away, though with no indication as to where. I liked that last bit with her and Mycroft talking the most, in a lot of ways, he is my favourite. Would love to hear everyone's thoughts at this point. I like to add in a lot of small, subtle things with each character.
> 
> Next chapter: Sherlock and John go and speak with Max.


	13. Never the Same Love Twice

True to his own ways of operation, Sherlock had risen early that Christmas morning after a full four hours of sleep, waking John up in the process so they could be out the door and on their way to the ever mysterious Max's home. The day was crisp, lines of powder blue and pink mixed in the swirls of clouds above London as they withheld snow. He took to noticing the certain distinctions that only belonged on Christmas day. For one thing, he and his blogger had not been the only two with the goal of an early start, and trying to hail a cab had been murder. While every other normal citizen was bouncing about from house to house of their in-laws, he and John were going to invade on the holiday morning of someone who was mostly a complete stranger. It was turning out to be a better Christmas already.

John yawned openly, the lines around his eyes crinkling while his mouth expanded like an opening of a cave to accompany the large intake of air. The whites of his eyes were still lined with red strain from drinking too much the previous night, and he hadn't been too chipper from the unabashed wake-up call that Sherlock had given him that morning. It mattered little the explanation, for Sherlock could just not see what was wrong with entering a person's room unannounced. "Do you think he's expecting us?" John said with tears in his eyes that had accompanied the yawn. He rubbed at the corners tiredly with his gloved hand.

"I presume," Sherlock said, his own confidence driving him to that conclusion. "It being Christmas morning will make no difference. Unknown circumstances have led him to being no longer married, and he has one son. He is also an immigrant, so a large portion of his family would still reside in Germany."

John leaned his head against the cab window for a pillow, signs of fatigue still present with him. "Right, I forgot that part."

Sherlock returned his focus to Wendi's scribble on the note. The address was not of a flat in the heart of London, but of a manner in a suburb away from the bustle of downtown. He was reasonably certain that Max would have had a small flat on the side to return to while his son was away for school, for  _Vicarious_ had been placed in the centre of London, and the constant trips back and forth would have been much too inconvenient for the ruse. If Mycroft was at the helm of this ploy, he would not have invited disruption as an admired friend.

John groaning in discomfort managed to break his focus, though he had not been in his normal plight of thought where he was too enamoured with details to put any real attention into what went on around him. Indeed the sight of his doctor disparaged by pain had him feeling something frighteningly close to pity. "What is the lesson to be learned here John?"

"Staying in bed to nurse my hangover instead of following you around London." He mumbled against the window, his cheek stuck to the glass while his breath left a warm fog on the inside surface.

"Actually, the proper course would have been to avoid the hangover to begin with. I would suggest consuming less alcohol next time."

"I'm really in no mood to listen to whatever this is. I'd rather struggle through it with as much dignity as I can conjure thank you." John sniped, giving him a frosty glare, though it was thin of ice.

Sherlock continued to smirk until John let out a dry huff, laughing derisively himself. Spending Christmas day together on a case had been something Sherlock was curious, if not eager to see done, though he was adamant on keeping sure that John didn't notice the fact. Harry had contacted John the previous week to inform him she wouldn't be home for the holiday, and thus his hope had taken to the ground like the first root from a seed. While it was widely known that Christmas was held in low regard by his standards, he still didn't wish to witness the cheery day in solitude. Anyone else he normally surrounded himself with would have been too wrapped up in gifts and food, with the exception of his brother, and he would have sooner wandered the streets aimlessly with his homeless network than to take up with Mycroft.

"Have you thought anymore about Avery's chain?" John brought up suddenly, righting his position despite the queasy look on his face. "Because I've been giving it some thought, and I might have guesses. They'll all be wrong of course, but I'd rather pass the time chatting than acknowledging how the motion of the cab makes me want to be sick."

The term 'chatting' was not something he would normally associate with the discussion of a case, even if Avery wasn't exactly that, but he would trudge through for John, if only because the thought of the necklace had been plaguing his mind as we **l** l. "No harm in guessing, though I expect you will have reasonable theories for all answers you put forth."

"Oh I wouldn't dream of one word answers," John said sarcastically. "My first simple guess is a locket. It's common for women to carry a picture of someone close to them next to their hearts, and I don't see why Avery should be any different."

"You're correct that it is too simple a guess. Avery is still a being with sentiment, but unlike you John, she keeps those feelings quietly to herself. You'll recall she had not a photo to be seen in her office, and so was it the same in her flat. For her to go to the extreme length of toting a picture in a locket, it would not correspond with the set rules she has for herself. After observing her routine from afar, I have a profound knowledge of how she conducts herself, a guideline to her habits."

"A guideline of being Avery?" John confirms with question.

"If you find that to be an appropriate idiom then by all means keep it."

John clapped his hands together, leaning back in his seat with a sigh. "Alright, at least Garon's spying did you some good. I think my second guess is more pitiful than the first, but what the heck; I'm a glutton for punishment today. What about some sort of engagement ring? You said so yourself that it was highly possible that she had been in love with someone. If the relationship ended on a tragic note, she might still hold on to that small reminder for sentimentality's sake."

"Wrong again, though I have considered the possibility of it being a token of love."

"It being?" John narrowed his eyes until they were two thin slits, cutting into him like knives. "You know what it is, don't you?"

"Yes, and it wasn't hard to surmise once I returned to the details of the chain. You should know the answer John, for you have them yourself, made years ago."

Sherlock watched John's face bloom from confusion to realisation in a matter of seconds, and he enjoyed the short moment as it ticked by, like the watching of the sun as it came up over a flat horizon. "Dog tags?"

"The very same that you keep stored away in your room. It did not occur to me until I noticed the chain was not a precious metal, but stainless steel, a ball-chain. It's not uncommon for a ball-chain to hold different pendants, but I settled for dog tags because Avery has been influenced by a form of military background, evident by her stern but respective demeanor, and her experience around a revolver. Not including herself of course, for her age and time of addiction would not allow for it, but it could be her father, a brother, or someone whom she had entered into an intimate relationship with. I'm inclined to believe it's the former, something that has developed over a lengthy period of time."

"I'm assuming there's only one way we'll ever find that out." John replied demurely, a deep look of contemplation setting in as he seemed to go over what Sherlock had just revealed.

"For now it is of meager importance, and I'm content to leave it be," His focus was drawn to large brick dwellings as the cab turned down into a large cul-de-sac. Max's neighbourhood could be described as anything but quaint and cozy. The homes that lined the street were far apart, all the front yards layered in thick overlays of snow. The streets had already been made clean, one of the benefits of paying higher taxes, and they could clearly see where Max's house was at the end of the lane. The ride out had taken a significant amount of time, and Sherlock—perhaps suddenly being struck by the cord of generosity due to the holiday—split the fare. "A day spent on cab fare." He murmured, stepping out onto the pavement.

"Hope we have enough to get back," John said, coming around beside him to the driveway of Max's home. His blogger appeared impressed by the estate, eyes widening a fraction while his lips parted in awe until his teeth began to chatter. "This is what I always imagined Mycroft's home would look like."

"It's bigger than this."

Sherlock started up the walkway, John following with a gobsmacked expression. There was a light outside the front door illuminating a path in the bright of day, perhaps mistakenly left on since the arrival of dawn. The golden slit of the letterbox had frost accumulating around the edge, it looking like a prominent piece in the centre of the green door. Soft, silver curtains were drawn in the bay window at the front of the home, but there was the gentle glow of a lamp lit from within, and the subtle sounds of muffled voices could be heard inside. Sherlock rapped his hand against the surface of the door, striking it with his boney knuckles through his gloves. He listened for the sound of approaching footsteps, slow and uneven, accompanied by the dull sound of a cane knocking on the floor with every step until the silence of halting. Max stood on the other side, his walking stick balanced in one hand as he leaned on the frame of the opened door.

"Wendi always was reliable," His hybrid accent of English and German flowed out sweetly from his lips, forcing a kind of smile where only the one corner of his mouth lifted slightly on one side. He was dressed in grey trousers and a white button-up, the diamond cuff-links glinting in the light, drawing attention to his wrists. Once more he had a gold tie wrapped around his neck, only loosely finished as if they had interrupted his dressing so early in the morning. The lack of style to his mussed hair was good evidence to that. He carefully stepped aside, holding out his arm in a welcoming gesture. "I'm not sure if a greeting or a Merry Christmas is in order."

"Or maybe an apology on our part. You look as if we've interrupted your morning." John said politely, shutting the door behind him, leaving them to stand awkwardly in the foyer. The sound of a French horn carried melodiously to them through the house, and it was the only lively thing in the otherwise dull manor.

The timbre of Max's voice was casual, as if he was speaking to two lifelong friends reunited after many years apart. "Not at all. It's only myself, my son and the housekeeper."

"You have a housekeeper, but you answer your own door?" John blurted without thinking.

Max gave the doctor a leveled stare. "A man needs to be in charge of his own home, and that sometimes includes answering his own door."

It had to do with pride Sherlock noted, observing Max as his back turned, limping his way into his home, all the while balancing on his cane with his left palm firmly gripping the silver and gold handle. Upon closer examination, Sherlock could distinguish the handle was a head of a bull, and no further deducing was needed after that.

"Your son plays well." He commented in regards to the music.

"You mean you never stopped to consider it was my housekeeper?" Max japed as he led them to the living room where he promptly took a seat on the settee, heaving a sigh while he kneaded his knuckles into his lame leg. It was a habit Sherlock had once seen by John from his psychosomatic limp, but Max's condition was much too real for there to be any irrationality in his actions. Max pointed at the couch across from himself, all of his furniture looking entirely too expensive and old world Empire to sit on, and it reminded Sherlock of his childhood home. "Take a seat, and we'll discuss Avery for a while."

"Oh," John exclaimed in surprise. "You get right to the point huh?"

"Where is the use in being subtle anymore Doctor Watson? Come out straight forward, people will appreciate you all the more for it, and they'll remember you for your integrity." His eyes were disarming, but in a way that was inviting, and with the power to make others too trusting of him too quickly.

"I had surmised that you had sent Wendi to us last night. Under restriction from my brother since your business was shutdown no doubt."

"That is his way of operation, though he would have seen you on your way here through the CCTV cameras. I'm assuming he wouldn't expect any less from you Sherlock, and I didn't want to be disappointed either, not after following Doctor Watson's blog as faithfully as I have. I confess the last two years were felt with constant sorrow on my part. It's a pleasant thing, to live vicariously through the stories of others, and I have missed those words so. Will you be posting your latest case soon?"

"Most likely." John said with a hint of pride.

Max smiled in return, his delight palpable. "I'm stuck on the edge of my chair. Waiting for you two to return is awful, and I can't be the only one who feels that way."

"Why the sudden shutdown of your nightclub?" Sherlock interrupted, impatient as the last bit of conversation was meaningless to his cause.

"We completed what had to be done. The club was a front for a Government operation." Max informed, making eye contact to show his honesty.

"MI6?"

"I suspect, though I wasn't given every piece of information in great detail. I owed Mycroft a favour, and this was me owning up to that and playing my part."

"What did he do for you?" John inquired suspiciously.

"You no doubt already know the surname 'Renke' is a fabrication. I'm Max Lehmann, and I made a living in owning a string of nightclubs that started in Dresden, though unlike  _Vicarious_ , they were all ran legitimately, or at least as clean as a nightclub can be with the silent few illicit activities taking place under my nose." He swept a hand over his brow, sitting up in his seat in his growing discomfort. "You will remember I said I was familiar with James Moriarty, and while that is the truth, the circumstance of our meeting did not occur in London, nor was it with Avery."

"When did you meet with him?" Sherlock felt his body grow with heat, and his stomach knotted unpleasantly in a series of tangles with the news of his enemy brought to light.

"Before your name was ever uttered here Sherlock. It was in Germany six years ago, and as I said, he went under a false name, not that I or anyone else would have been aware of him at that time. He approached me with an offer about my business, and there was a third party involved."

"Likely a client. His Criminal Empire would have started long before he gave himself the title Consulting Criminal."

Max nodded, comprehending Sherlock's words. "Said client wanted to use my clubs to push narcotics. It has always been quick, easy money, but I still refused even if the idea sounded glamorous. I had a family to think about, and I wanted my business to always remain clean."

The hitch in Max's voice did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, nor did the pain stricken look on his face. "And how did he take your refusal."

"With that Goddamn smile and those Jack the Ripper lanterns looking back at me. You know those eyes Sherlock, dead brown, almost black like a shark's. I felt assured that the problem would end there, and that was my mistake," His eyes darted to the large picture frame sitting on the shelf in his living room, free of dust, cherished, like the woman in the photo. Sherlock did a quick sweep of the picture of the woman in the frame, her short blonde hair caught up in the breeze at the time the photo was taken, green eyes smiling while she had an arm around the child in front of her. "That was my wife Diane, August's mother. I took that photo on our family vacation in Ireland."

"Avery said you had been married for a short time," John spoke up softly. "What happened to her Max?"

"She was murdered." Sherlock interjected, remaining stoic as he swam in a room thick with remorse.

John looked about ready to chastise him for the blunt remark, but Max signaled for him to keep silent. "She was taking August to school when it happened. I wasn't there, but I imagine she never heard it coming. At the time I didn't know it was murder, because I didn't know the depths of Moriarty's evil. It was a car accident, and those are a dime a dozen wherever you are. How was I supposed to know it was more than that? I hoped that it is just happenstance, but you should know that my son was there to witness his mother's death. He was holding her hand, waiting for the medics to arrive. For the first year, he would barely speak to me," Max's voice shook with despair, but not once did he let a tear fall from his eyes while he sat before them. "I knew he blamed me for not being there, and he had grown to resent me for it. We worked past it slowly, but he needed a better way to communicate his feelings."

John cleared his throat, overwhelmed by Max's story, a fault of showing heart. "Is that why you send him away to private school?"

"It was a benefit for us both to move away from Dresden; too much agony lingered there. August has done exceptionally well since the move, and I am proud of his accomplishments, even if I only play witness to them from a distance."

"When did you find out it was murder?" Sherlock cut in impatiently.

"I recognized Moriarty's face from following your story. I had forgotten about him after leaving Germany because I never knew about the connection between him and Diane's death. After I refused the deal, I had never heard from him or his client again. It wasn't until I saw his picture that I became suspicious."

Sherlock mentally praised the man's tenacity to throw himself into a situation without hesitating. "You went looking, and Mycroft found you."

"Yes, it's true I met your brother two years ago. I've known for two years now that my Diane was murdered after I gave every detail I had about James Moriarty over to your brother. His promise to me was that everything would be rectified in regards to Moriarty, so in return I promised him one favour, that he could call on me should he ever need something done."

"And  _Vicarious_  was the favour." John affirmed.

"Who better to run a false nightclub than one with prior experience? Incidentally, the operation was used as a cover to shut down a drug ring between London and Berlin, though with no affiliation to one Consulting Criminal, just other men of wealth and prosperity."

"Wendi, and all the other women there, were they actual er—call girls?" John stumbled on his words, trying to come off as polite as he could.

"They were until the club shut down. Every employee was hand-picked, and put through a strict screening process before they were sanctioned by the Government to do their job, as well as spy on particular clients that frequented the club. They have now been paid off with Government money."

John's face flashed with realisation. "Oh, so that's what Wendi meant when she said she had a financial change."

"It's of benefit to everyone; the young women get a fresh start, and there is now at least a handful less of sex trade workers roaming the streets. A small portion in the big picture, but it's sometimes better to put aside such facts and be pleased with what was accomplished."

"And what of Avery," Sherlock inquired, getting to the purpose of his visit. "Was she paid off to leave as well?"

"Avery was the only one not being paid by your brother, or any portion of the Government for that matter. She adamantly refused him whenever he contacted us. I wanted to at least create a semblance of a workplace atmosphere, so I gave her a salary, however small of one that she was willing to accept."

John turned to Sherlock with confusion growing in his eyes. "She had that large flat. How could she afford that with little income?"

"Previous funds no doubt. The mystery of her grows evermore," Sherlock returned his attention to Max, who was watching them with the blankness that he and John continued to be faced with concerning the missing head of security. "You've only known her for four months then."

"I'm afraid so. She was brought in by your brother's choosing, and I don't know much else about her, other than that she looked after everyone at  _Vicarious_ , not just me with my handicap."

They were interrupted by Max's housekeeper, something startling about her that John and Sherlock were both quick to pick up on as she leaned over to speak in Max's ear. Gazing back at them unfazed, he rose from his seat, palming his cane as he managed himself to stand. "Excuse me for a moment, there's something that needs my attention. When I return, I have something for you both."

John waited until Max was a far enough distance away and his housekeeper was out of the room, leaving them alone before he spoke up, shooting straight up from his seat. "Did you see that?"

"Hmm, yes. His housekeeper bears a striking resemblance to his late wife. And Avery also, as I had first read the nature of their relationship incorrectly. It was Max seeking familiar affection; a longing for his dead wife. Strange."

"Strange? She's only been gone for six years." John remarked, his previous incredulity for the conversation forgotten in favour of a surprise as he looked at Sherlock.

"John, what do I know in the ways of marriage, much less love," There was disdain as he said the word. "If I am to be inept in one topic in order to see clearly in all others, than I consider myself fortunate."

John shook his head, disagreement on his tongue. "When you lose someone close to you, you'll understand."

Sherlock frowned, an argument forming in his head with many reasons as to why John was incorrect in that assessment, but he refrained, perhaps already bored, or something else that he didn't want to give voice to. "Was that a bit not good then?"

"Yes, but I was the only one around to hear it. You know, being a little more sensitive to others feelings might do you good."

"Max should consider the same for his son. It's logical for someone grieving to seek comfort in a substitute, but the constant reminder of having another around who resembles the boy's mother . . ." He paused, unsure on how to complete his own thought. "I trust he'll take the right course of action to remedy the situation."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say this was care coming from you." John said, though no trace of mocking in his tone.

"Children are our future, and therefore need to be looked after."

"I agree –oh!" Sherlock had blocked out the sound of the French horn during their speaking, and John likely didn't notice either that it had ceased in song. August stood at the border to the living room, appearing apathetic on whether or not he had overheard any of what was said. John was first to speak to him, both out of friendliness and guilt, "Hello there."

"Hello Doctor Watson," August spoke blandly, but not of disinterest before his green eyes flitted over to Sherlock. "Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes."

"I admire your skill on the French horn. A difficult instrument to play to be sure, you must have great lung capacity." Among other things. Sherlock could not stop from deducing the thirteen year old who stood with straight shoulders, the stance of a full grown man still trapped in adolescence. Ancient eyes, and an air of maturity shrouded him, but also disconnected him from his peers. He was dressed in all white, a sense of purity maybe, but more likely chosen out of convenience. Highly intelligent, from both attending private school and a studier of the French horn. Right hand dominant from the callus on his fingertips, and a sufferer of insomnia from the bags that hung below his eyes, tinted a light purple. Sherlock had not come across a child that read as prideful, but August was indeed so. He'd even go as far as to say a bit arrogant, losing what little childlike qualities were left in him. The boy's eyes had not once darted to the decorated tree in the living room.

"It's simple. I also practice on the flute and piano, though it gives me grief because of the shortness of my fingers," August replied with loathing for his own inadequacies while taking a step forward towards them. "I hope you find Avery. Father has a plan to help you."

Sherlock felt John toss him a bemused look before he regarded August. "And how will he go about that?"

August remained quiet for a moment, seeming to ignore John's question. "I would like to challenge you to a game of chess Consulting Detective."

"I don't have time for games." Sherlock said with a frown.

"You assume you'll win because I am a child, but I have been the chess champion at my school for three years now. You would be admirable enough to turn down my offer, but if I was an adult, would you respond with the same answer?"

"Did Avery respond in the same manner when you propositioned her?"

Sherlock smirked as he finally got some reaction from the boy. He was sharp for his young age, but his process of deducing was only still forming because of it, and his mind still too boggled by misery from his mother's death. "How did you know that?" He asked quietly, looking dejected.

"Your attachment to her was obvious when you mentioned her without probable reason. You also have a need to prove yourself, and you go about that by using your strengths against the inferior. I imagine if you were to beat me at your own game, it would leave you with a temporary feeling of superiority. Something to boast about to others."

August hung his head, a pout forming on his mouth. "You're too advanced at what you do."

An abrupt chuckle from John startled them both into looking at the doctor. Either he was half mad from a night's worth of drinking, or he truly found something amusing. "I think you've found yourself an apprentice Sherlock."

He scowled sourly in return. "I don't want an apprentice."

John must have expected the boy would grow hurt or offended, because he pinned Sherlock with a stare that was all reprimanding. He was saved from a lecture from John as August spoke up, his mood an improvement from stoic to cheery. "I'll keep learning then. I've been self-taught since I began, and I don't want that to stop now."

Sherlock turned to his flatmate, looking smug as John rolled his eyes. "Oh don't say it."

"I see you've met my son," Max said, returning with a crisp, white envelope in his free hand. He halted by August, ruffling his hair affectionately, even when the boy tossed him a look of indignation. "Did you challenge them to a game of chess then? He does so with any of my guests." Max told them with pride for his son.

"As I had surmised," Sherlock said, his eyes flickering to Max. "The most useful of objects can be concealed in something as insignificant as paper. May I see the envelope?"

Max smiled ruefully. "You have a way with people Holmes, though mostly none of it charming. You're a sight better than your brother though, I'll give you that."

Sherlock stepped forward while taking the envelope from Max's outstretched hand without spending his gratitude. He dug his hand in with eagerness, fingers coming into contact with two thin, glossy strips of paper. John was looking over his shoulder, an expression conceived of wonder on his face as he looked at what came from the envelope. "Plane tickets to New York." Sherlock announced.

"A Christmas gift?" John asked mistakenly.

"More like me paying back a favour. The business with  _Vicarious_  was for your brother, and those tickets are for you. After all Sherlock, did you not also have a part in taking down Moriarty?"

He looked down at the tickets, reflecting on his past two years until his thoughts led him back to the roof at St. Bart's. "Avery is in New York, how do you know this?"

"Don't worry; I wouldn't deliberately waste your time, or my own money. When I first met Avery, she said she had been living in New York before returning to London. Just before she left again, she told me she was being sent back, forgetting her slip up from when we had first met, that I already knew that meant New York. Mycroft will no doubt learn soon of this, but I am no longer in his debt. Besides, you have an urgent look about you, and whatever you need Avery for, I'm certain she can help, so I feel no guilt whatsoever in giving those tickets to you."

"New York is huge," John pointed out, his hands making gestures in the air as he talked. "How are we supposed to find her?"

"The population is nearly the same as London," Max said with optimism. "And you are Sherlock Holmes, I'm sure it will be no trouble."

A new settling would be a challenge, but it wouldn't be his first time working outside of London. He had experience, enough to make him certain he could find her. Avery knew something about Moriarty. The details he already had documented about her were too précised to be coincidence, and from what he knew, the Universe was rarely that lazy. The case of the murdered serial killer was still pending, and he wouldn't know more until the ballistics report came back. An escape to New York seemed just the thing to prolong his boredom from setting in. His mind was made up.

"Be ready to pack John."

His doctor hung his head, cursing under his breath. "I knew it."

"If there is nothing more to be shared, then we shall take our leave."

"If you don't have enough cab fare to get back, I can spot you the money." Max offered.

"Oh no, you already paid for the flight." John said, and Sherlock could sense his unease about accepting paid expenses from others.

"And your hotel for one week." Max added.

John grew even more awkward. "And the hotel . . . great."

"We'll handle the cab fare then. Come John, I think it's time you took another paracetamol." Sherlock said as he strode past the foyer to the door.

"Lousy hangover." John mumbled grouchily as he followed.

Max came with them to the door with August's help supporting him on his one side so he could manage the walk better. The boy had turned quiet since his father's return, and it made the Consulting Detective wonder if he had deduced anything more about either of them. "Do give Avery my regards when you see her." Max said in the confidence that they would be successful.

"If she'll be pleased to see us. I have a feeling we're stumbling onto something not even Sherlock can predict."

"What a silly notion John." Sherlock retorted, though with some annoyance.

"Goodbye John, Sherlock. I wish you a safe flight." Max called, closing the door behind them. August's pensive gaze was the last thing to be seen before they had been shut out into the cold.

"I despise that expression," Sherlock had hid his contempt until he stepped outside the door, out of view from the home as he tugged up the collar of his coat. " _Have a safe flight_ ; as if we have control over that. Insufferable."

"I don't feel comfortable accepting a flight paid by someone else." John argued, disregarding what he had said.

"Currency is an inexhaustible resource. Spent, given, used, and put back into the system. Let him squander if he wishes. It is his risk," They started down the pavement of the neighbourhood, walking the length of the cul-de-sac before they would reach the main strip of road to hail a cab. Winter's chill was biting, even on as calm a day as it was, and Sherlock clenched his hands together tightly in his gloves. "He was lied to by my brother. Mycroft would never help out of the goodness of his heart—it wouldn't earn him the moniker 'Iceman' after all. It had nothing to do with his wife being a victim to Moriarty; Mycroft's interests lie in August."

"That's not difficult to fathom," John said between clenched teeth, his body ridged from the cold. "Were you similar to that growing up?"

"Why?"

John shrugged. "Just curious. You've never really talked about your childhood."

"Urgh, dull."

John sighed while dropping the previous subject when he took the hint, which Sherlock was glad for. "Max is like the real life Gatsby."

"Because of his lavish spending and flaunting of money, or his failures of love?"

"Umm both I guess," Sherlock grinned behind the collar of his coat, sensing John's surprise that he had been aware of the piece of literature to which he was referring. "He had his Daisy Buchanan for a while at least, though he's still stuck in West Egg."

"He is the Gatsby that was allowed to linger," Sherlock concluded as he thought about the final act of the book. "I will consider Max Lehmann for a while longer. He refused Moriarty, and he chose to be indebted to my brother; a rare and bold mix that is."

"And he has your apprentice." John added with a laugh.

"I look forward to when that joke wears thin." Sherlock deadpanned, turning sharply to his left as it led them further down the opened street.

Cars were flying to and from every which way, pelting them with the rush of air as they walked at length from the road. He strayed aimlessly in his head, like a cat venturing out from its home for the first time, stumbling upon a room he had yet to construct. It was empty, a space for rent in his Mind Palace that he was reluctant to fill. He would deign to start it later, but first he needed New York. He turned away from the empty room, leaving his Mind Palace for the cold comfort of reality where John was still walking beside him. Whether or not his blogger had attempted for his attention during his dabble into his Mind Palace was unclear, though he was welcoming of the quiet it brought. So much to process in such a short time. Sherlock found himself wishing Christmas could be the same every year, and John's small smile made him aware that he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is a lot to process huh? Max and August will make occasional reappearance's throughout this fic, though right now for next chapter we are jumping right into Avery for quite a while and I suspect readers will enjoy that because I can finally hint at the romance that probably feels nonexistent at this point. That's not to say it won't still be taken at a realistic pace though, but at least Avery and Sherlock can talk amongst themselves. Lots of little Easter eggs this chapters pertaining to a great many things, so let me know what you really enjoyed. Do you think that chess match between Sherlock and August will happen at a later time?
> 
> Next chapter: Doctor and Consulting Detective hit the Big Apple in search of their Head of Security.


	14. Risk of Drowning

Being on foreign soil with Sherlock was something entirely fascinating indeed, and John made sure to take mental notes so he could blog about the trip later when they returned to London. Their flight had left early from Heathrow, a headache all in itself being it had been the day after Christmas, and that meant fighting against the rush of families sprinting for flights for holidays. What was worse was John had never experienced an aeroplane flight with Sherlock before, and his flatmate locked in a steel cylinder, twenty-thousand feet up in the air for a prolonged amount of time had been nearly as close to pure mortification as John had ever obtained. By the time they had reach LaGuardia, everyone in the cabin harboured a severe hatred for the both of them. It was enough to have John contemplate sedating Sherlock on the flight back . . . or leaving him in New York all together.

They were booked in the Mansfield hotel in Midtown. It wasn't the Four Seasons or the Algonquin, but it was still a four star, and thus the highest quality of accommodation's that John had ever stayed in. Sherlock had wanted a room at the Plaza, overlooking Central Park, if only so he could listen to any crimes or murders taking place at night in the notorious park.

" _It's not as if the NYPD are going to call on you for hire."_ John had told him at the time, annoyed that Sherlock's imperious mood was ruining his initial excitement for the hotel they were booked in, lost in the novelty and forgetting they were there for a cause.

" _It's good to have options should I ever be run out of London for an unnecessary amount of time in the unforeseeable future."_  Sherlock had countered, flopping down on his own bed while studying the complementary soaps left on the pillow. John had just been thankful that Max had booked them a room with two beds.

Still tired from the jetlag, and completely unfamiliar with where they were going, Sherlock had dragged him along to the streets of New York at a reasonably slow pace. In what felt like aimless wandering, John's eyes darted about to every landmark he had ever seen in magazines and online articles. Even though they were there with a purpose, he couldn't help but tick off in his head a checklist of all the places he wanted to see. Times Square, the Flat Iron building, the Empire State building, Ellis Island, Yankee Stadium (even though he knew next to nil about baseball), and about a half a dozen other things that he had not a hope of visiting.

"Attempting to sight-see John?" Sherlock asked, his eyes alight with knowing.

"I can't help it," John defended haughtily. "It's one of the greatest cities in the world, and I always wanted to see it actually."

"London is better."

It was to Sherlock because it was old, familiar, and had the people he associated with on a daily basis. It was home, and though he would deny such a sentiment, John knew his friend had already begun to miss it.

_"John, it probably isn't my place to say this, but have you considered what Sherlock's two years away from you were like?"_

He remembered Avery's words, their power hitting him suddenly, and it left him feeling overheated in the cold of winter. He stumbled in step, enough for Sherlock's meditative gaze to notice, but he made no comment. "How are we going to find Avery in all of this?" He asked while sounding out of breath from his own anxiety thundering down on him.

"Reaching out to the homeless to start. This city is rich in underground resources." Sherlock had a way with the homeless, as John had seen many times upon observing in London, so it wasn't too far of a stretch to say those talents would translate over to New York. The city was foreign, but people were mostly the same no matter the location in the world, and the line between good and bad had always been thin.

"Have you heard from Mycroft yet?" John asked, remembering that they were facing more than one obstacle in their hunt.

Sherlock withdrew his phone from his coat, holding out a typed message for John to read. "Since before we boarded in Heathrow, though there's nothing he can do now. He has little influence over the American Government, and he will find his reach can only extend so far across the ocean." Sherlock said with some smugness.

"Such is the way of the beast," John countered with a chuckle. "That probably doesn't please him."

_**It is in the best interest for everyone for you to leave Ms. Nash where she is. Your meddling will only bring harmful consequences. Leave it alone Sherlock.—MH** _

"What do you think the harmful consequences are?" John asked as he finished reading over the text. He noticed the absence of the usual teasing 'brother mine' when Mycroft was addressing Sherlock, and it seemed the use of his first name in text was used when the conversation was meant to be taken as serious, accompanied with a stern warning.

"A truth revealed that he's been trying to keep from me. As if he ever could."

"And you really think Avery knows something about Moriarty?"

"I expect her insight will prove useful. She'll want to hear the result of the case regarding Miss Greenly as well, and of the shooter that the Yard continues to pursue."

In their rush to leave on short notice, John had forgotten about informing the Yard, too busy letting the surgery know last minute that he would be absent for a week. "What's Lestrade going to do if they find a new lead?"

"Hmm?"

John gave a sidelong glance to discern Sherlock's guilty tone. "Oh God, you didn't tell him we left, did you?"

"It did not occur to me John." Sherlock retorted slowly with a head shake.

"Greg relies on us; on you. If there's a break in the case, he'll immediately try to contact you."

"And I'll promptly inform him of our location, and that the case will resume once we're back in London."

"The Yard won't wait a whole week for us, he'll have other people look into it first. He had to for two years you know."

"Yes, and look at the appalling low numbers of solved cases in the past two years. Incompetent, the lot of them. Good thing I'm back."

"And the world continues spinning now that Sherlock Holmes has returned," John said with an eye roll and a smirk. "Remember, that's around the sun, not the other way around."

Sherlock made an unintelligible comment in reply, one of displeasure. They turned the corner, coming across a busy intersection where throngs of people were lined in waiting to cross the street while yellow cabs drove to and from in every direction. The cabs in New York were much smaller than their London black cab, a fact that Sherlock had more than complained about when they had drove in from the airport. He had constantly shifted around in his seat, grumbling about the lack of leg room. Needless to say the cabbie had tossed them some foul looks before he was rid of them at the hotel.

"Where are we going?" John asked as the sign changed for them to cross, elbowing his way between bodies to not lose Sherlock in the dense crowd.

Sherlock looked over the collar of his dark coat at his friend, the same mischievous look on his face that always accompanied trouble. "To find Avery."

* * *

Avery paced back and forth, her hand gripping around her phone tightly as she thought about the call she had just received from Mycroft, warning her about Sherlock's and John's arrival in New York. Going great lengths for a case wasn't out of the question for the Consulting Detective, but she didn't know how she could be of help in that concern. Well that wasn't true, she had her suspicions, but Mycroft had assured her there was no way for his brother—or anyone—to look into her past.

After demanding adamantly until her voice was weak, Mycroft had given her permission to contact Sherlock's number from his website. While she had it programmed once before, that had been in her old phone back in London, and she hadn't bothered to take the time to memorize it when she was certain her departure was more than a goodbye, no matter how it seemed on face value. Present day came knocking, and she was confronted with a difficult task, one Mycroft seemed to think she was incapable of handling, but it was her past and she certainly had more to risk than he did. It didn't discourage her, and it did not stop her from typing up a quick text to send to him before she could change her mind.

_**How do you like New York?** _

She waited for Sherlock's reply, sitting down on the soft bed in her current living quarters as her weight wrinkled the stiff surface of the blue duvet. She lied back with her legs still dangling over the edge, looking at her ceiling and spying the first signs of white paint chipping away, as well as spots of water damage. Her phone pinged, and she held it in front of her view, distorting the rest of the details of the room while reading over Sherlock's words.

 _**Dismal. I see** _ _**my brother got to you already** _

His voice was inside her head as she read over his words with an uncomfortable amount of familiarity.

_**Well you know who I am already. What gave me away? –AN** _

_**Unknown local number. The area codes here are absurd. –SH** _

She agreed with him on that, even alone in her room. Her thumb traced the screen, leaving a streak of fingerprints as she tried to think of a careful reply. Mycroft was only allowing her to contact his brother in what little faith he had in her not messing up in a largely dramatic way. Best to play it safe and simple.

_**Why are you here? –AN** _

_**Because Max gave us plane tickets. It would be impolite to waste a gift. –SH** _

She found no humor for his jape, eyes narrowing for no one to see.

_**Go home Sherlock. –AN** _

When at first she did not immediately receive an answer, she thought there was the small chance he had given up for the moment, but her phone broke out into a series of blaring rings, severing the idea from her mind, like a parasite torn from its host. She answered with but a glance to the number, steeling herself to talk, free hand clasping tight to the collar of the fluffy dressing gown, sorting it like it was her shield. "Making calls now; that's not like you."

" _You were being difficult and unresponsive, my words weren't working. Very hard to get a grasp of one's state over text,"_  He told her in a completely analytical tone, though he was not without the usual taint of excitement that he carried when barred by objection.  _"It's constantly disconcerting to learn my brother has informed you so much on my nature."_

"It isn't hard to learn about you these days, either from the internet or sticking my head in a London paper," She stood up from her bed, moving towards the window to peek out through the curtain. Since returning to New York the sun had felt colder upon her face, even when it had been several degrees warmer than London during that time of year. Maybe she was to blame for the chill. The morning news got it wrong. "Why did you call me?"

" _John missed your voice."_

" _Hey!"_  John's voice cried out indigently in the background with obvious insult for being pulled into their conversation without consenting to it. She could also make out the sounds of plates and glassware clinking together, and amicable voices in a constant flow of chatter. They were somewhere public, a diner more than likely at that hour of day.

"I was surprised to learn of Max's bold move against Mycroft," She continued speaking as she peered at the walking heads passing below her window. "But then again it won't be enough to drive your brother away."

" _Yes, August certainly is less dull than the rest of you."_

She was sorry for missing the first meeting between the Consulting Detective and the youth, thinking it would have been something of a spectacle. "So you've met August. Did you take him on at chess then?"

" _Match pending for a later time. I would be remiss if I did not inquire about your experience."_

"My strategy proved unsuccessful. August is neither a passive nor an aggressive player; something to consider."

" _Why are you talking about a chess match? Aren't we here about the case . . . and the other thing?"_

She listened closely to John's anxious whisper on the other end of the line, a smile coming to her because he was the same as she had left him. They both were, and it made her long for London more than she already had been, but it seemed her suffering was leagues behind to finishing. "Your brother was vague, but it sounds like you have something urgent to ask me."

" _A pressing matter yes. It would be most convenient if you would meet us, whether or not your schedule allows for it."_

How very like him. She was adjusted to having to drop everything for the sake of a Holmes, an attractively irritating quality to be on the receiving end of. "And concede to defeat, I think not. How long are you here for, or rather, how long did Max elect to pay for the hotel?

" _Until the second."_

Max was too flippant with his money for choosing to pay for the whole week, something she had learned about him while working with him at  _Vicarious._  "Then let's make a game out of this. I'll give you until midnight on New Year's to find me. If you do, I'll answer all of your questions pertaining to the case only. However, if you're even one minute too late, you turn back around and go home to London, never seeking me out again."

" _Don't you dare accept to that. We came here for answers."_ John argued vehemently.

" _Are there rules?"_ Sherlock went ahead and asked her, apparently ignoring his friend's protests.

"You can't track me through the GPS in my phone now that you have my number, though I'm sure you won't have need of that. You have your resources, and I have mine. I would call that a fair challenge."

John furthered his opposition to the idea, begging adamantly. _"Sherlock!"_

" _I accept."_

The line cut out, leaving her in an abyss of buzzing silence, the white noise of the phone held up to her ear deafening, until the dial tone clicked in. She ended the call, dropping her hand to her side as she receded back to the bed, sinking down into the waves of the duvet with her dressing gown wrapped around her like a life preserver vest. She never had been much of a swimmer, but now she was voluntarily being swept into the sea of New York for the chase. It had been far too long since she had participated in such a thing, but she trusted her skills were sharp enough to make it an interesting week. Mycroft wouldn't approve, but she had spent her Christmas holiday in solitude, and Sherlock's and John's arrival was just the jolt she needed to feel alive again. Or maybe it gave her the excuse to leave her tiny living space. The walls were closing in so tightly, she thought they might start breathing around her in the night.

She inhaled deeply before blowing all of the air out of her lungs, bracing herself into a seated position as she started on tactics for her battle plan. Her legs were kicked out in front of her and she balanced her hands under her chin, smiling gleefully with renewed purpose. "The game is on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a shorter chapter, but fun in the fact that it sets up for the three to reunite (hopefully!) I have much of the story planned out from here, now if only I could write faster!
> 
> Next chapter: A series of close calls and the countdown as Sherlock and John try to catch up with Avery, while she hopes to stay one step ahead of them.


	15. Two and Less Than Five

**It was 5:15 P.M.**

Failure was not something Sherlock welcomed; there was no use for it. A tedious thing, made him haggard and even irritated at times when he could spare it. It was looking more imminent with each passing day, unavoidable between the short hours of daylight to the black of night that left the city illuminated by neon and incandescent light. The searching had expanded later than he had initially calculated in his mind. An unfortunate result of his knowledge of the streets being less apt here than it was in London. John certainly wasn't happy gallivanting through foreign streets covered in shadow, and more than once he had insisted they call Avery and put an end to their game. Inconceivable. He would not surrender in the face of error because of one little misstep.

They kept in touch with her throughout each day. Her teasing taunts were bold and black before his face through each text he received. She was better at avoidance than he had anticipated, and she had the one advantage of knowing the city far better than he had come to in the short days. Avoidance was the trait of a former addict; he knew that far too well. Referring to those days in his Mind Palace was difficult simply because they had not been stored properly from his drug induced states. Seeking Avery was requiring his old forms of scheming and trickery, not his skills as a detective.

"It's the thirty-first Sherlock, we only have until midnight." John rubbed his hands together furiously, cold and cranky since their early morning start. The city had already been abuzz with activity, and Times Square would have to be avoided all day because of the preparations going on for the celebration for New Year's. Starting a new year on foreign soil wasn't something he would have fancied doing, but there was nothing for it but to continue as they had been until she was found. "Goodness knows if we'll come close to finding her this late into the week. Are we certain that wasn't her in the cab across the street yesterday?"

"If it had been, what difference does that make for today John?" He shot back frankly. His blogger, always one to dwell on could have's and would have's.

"Guess you're right," He mumbled into the collar of his coat with his eyes downcast to the slick grey pavement. "She hasn't given you any hints has she?"

"Where would the fun be in that?"

"I'm not having fun; I never was."

They cut the conversation short only because he didn't want to bother with a response to John's terse reply. Getting over emotional at a critical moment in their search would only bring about further delays, and he understood that his offhand comments held the capability to provoke his flatmate. Best to not get him riled up if he could avoid it.

"Don't fret John, I'm always at my best in the eleventh hour."

That garnered him a groan from the short doctor. "We've been at the eleventh hour since you agree to this foolish chase."

"Well another minute has ticked by, and I know the location of her flat."

John sent him a stunned look, with a need to satisfy his curiosity. "What, how did that development come about?"

"The homeless," He said, wondering if John had not been listening to him or had forgotten what he had been working hard on building up since they had arrived in New York. The jetlag probably playing up on him. It hadn't idled his brain any, but John—so flawed and normal—had complained about it over the course of the first thirty-six hours by his calculation. "They're slower at obtaining the information I need, but they have the same capacity for hard work when given the appropriate stimuli."

"So is that where we're headed now?" John asked while watching him as he caught the attention of a yellow cab. Dreadful things, he'd be glad to be rid of them in due time.

"That would be the prudent direction. It was obvious she was residing neither in midtown nor the eastside. Her finances include whatever figure Max paid her with, and residual funds that she has earned personally. She refused aid from Mycroft, and rent is high when taking into account she'll have no one to split the fee with. The move to get her here was done with haste, so she would have taken the first available option within her limited funds."

They hurried in to the halted cab by the pavement as he gave the address, ordering the cabbie to hurry through the New Year's Eve congestion. He received a stiff look through the mirror from the driver while they remained stationary in traffic.

"How does that explain her prime flat back in London?" John asked as he removed his gloves to wiggle life back into his fingers.

"It was never put back on market for rent," Something he had watched carefully in the weeks that followed her departure. "Someone could be silently paying the rent while she's away, but I think it is more likely that a personal relative owns the property. Her reaction to the destruction of her wall was curious; she had not been as concerned with the damage as she had been with what her neighbours would say."

"True, she never did press you to pay for it when anyone else would have, and I doubt it had to do with your charms."

Sherlock gave a small smirk at that, not being able to imagine anyone charming Avery. She did not embody femininity, though he did not think of her in terms of being masculine; rather she was sexless. Currently her purpose was to fit into the case, and that included the bottled parts of her past that he required to sate both his curiosity and any of the suspicions that had been conjured over Mycroft's secrecy of her being. Personality and physical appearance were things John would look for, but they were extraneous details for him to gloss over, aiding in deducing the minimal amount of information to form a textbook idea about her.

"They're not called flats here."

"Hmm?" He barely acknowledged as John spoke again.

"These buildings, they have apartments, not flats."

"Don't let yourself become Americanised so quickly John. This isn't a permanent stay."

"Is it really so awful being here?" John said affronted. Despite the circumstances of their stay in the city, John had been much more enamoured with New York than Sherlock, and his favour for it had grown more each passing day.

"I find my experiences here to be no different than when I was once in Florida. When I leave London for a case, the setting is merely background importance until it is vital."

"Remind me to never go on a holiday with you." John grumbled waspishly.

After a while of enduring slow moving traffic, they came upon the address he had been given for Avery's flat. An unimpressive brown brick building in an even more unimpressive neighbourhood was what they found. The pavement and the five steps up to the building were blanketed in a layer of snow that had not been removed, but rather seen the business end of many people coming and going if the footprints were anything to go by. John clumsily paid the cab fare, working out the conversion rate with the green notes while Sherlock strode up to the building with conviction. The block was lined with people walking in groups of two or more, the smiles palpable for the celebration that awaited them at the end of the night. He too shared in that excitement. It would be his failing point if they did not find Avery soon, but the idea had never entered his mind and he was prepared with bolts in the chamber, inquiries that would be made.

"Cheery sod that cabbie," John's voice exploded on his right when he came over to him after the cab had pulled away through the slush and muck of the road. His blogger surveyed the tall building with interest before turning to him. "Should we see if anyone's at home then?"

"We would have to be granted into the lobby, and that would require using the intercom," Something he had no desire of doing. He wouldn't give up their position now that they were ahead in the race. If she was made aware of their presence now, she would attempt a maneuver to flee before they could reach her. They were sneaking up on a jittery animal; this needed an element of surprise if they were to encroach upon her. "There is a fire escape on the side of the building. That is our way in."

John's short stride struggled to keep up as he led them down the narrow alley. A rusting frame of metal crawled up along the brick, like an exoskeleton of a large insect, and he intended they climb up it. He paused for a moment to count the windows to find the correct flat.

"This is breaking and entering . . . in a foreign country . . . what if she has an alarm?" John stammered while watching the entrance to the alley with nervous eyes.

"There won't be an alarm. She doesn't have the money for it, and she knows how to fire a gun," Sherlock refuted. "She lives up on the fifth floor, in the eighth flat to the left. The ground floor windows are the lobby and every corner of the building are the stairwells. Following that simple equation, she should live in the flat there."

John's sight followed to where he was pointing, a square window with the drapes drawn shut. "You're certain?" Sherlock gave his friend a pointed look that said all he needed without words. John held his hands up in surrender, the one corner of his mouth turning up in a half smile. "Alright, I just don't want to go flouncing in on some unsuspecting woman undressing is all."

"There's still the odd chance of that happening with Avery, but we won't flounce. What a silly idea that is," He reached up the height for the bottom of the ladder, hoisting himself up onto the rickety fire escape. The grated floor was slick beneath his shoes from the consistency of the snow that had fallen over the city since the start of their stay. They had been granted the odd break from the accumulation, frigid patches of wind taking up the space in between that had caused ice to form on everything it touched. With his hands still gloved behind leather, he started with a firm grip up the next section. "Hurry John." He called down.

John struggled to reach with his height, but his strength was enough to eventually pull himself up onto the platform after his feet had been left dangling off the ground. As patient as he could be, Sherlock waited for John to catch up before going any further. "You know how to pick the locks on windows too?" He panted between breaths, hunching over at the knees with his nose reddened from the cold climb.

"Old building, and by the looks of it the windows haven't been replaced in over twenty years. No lock and weak hinges. Do be sure not to knock anything over though."

He slowly lifted up the thin frame of the window, the wood sticking periodically from the seal formed between the old paint and the moisture from the snow. A gust of wind immediately blew the dark drapes back, and Sherlock lifted one leg over the ledge, slipping inside the flat carefully and onto old hardwood. His wet shoes left a small puddle of murky water, and he was careful not to slide and fall on the surface as he kept quiet in a crouched position. There was no light on in the dwelling, and all was silent and still. That prompted a sound of annoyance from him. "She's not here."

"What?" John exclaimed as he slipped onto the floor on his bottom from coming in the window. His feet had glided on the puddle that had been left behind.

"She knew we were coming here—" He was cut off from speaking as his phone pinged with a new message, which his eyes quickly darted over.

_**Should I do some redecorating? —AN** _

"—And she knows we're in her flat," He frowned while showing John the message. "But where was my mistake?"

"Maybe she saw us," John suggested as he idly brushed off his trousers, taking a look around her flat for himself. "Just a studio. Did you notice how everything is all in one room?"

"Not the loo." Sherlock pointed down the narrow hall next to the broom cupboard.

John rounded on him with an irritated look before finding that Sherlock was dialing a number on his phone. "What are you doing; you're calling her again?"

So John had been keeping track as well. He hated that he was breaking his own rule of preference to texting, but he found it easier to deduce Avery while looking at her, and seeing as he was without her presence, her voice was the next best option available. It was becoming something of a problem or at least a hindrance if nothing else.

" _You're going to run up my bill with all of these calls."_ Avery's voice came through clear to him on the other line.

"What was my misstep?" He asked starkly.

He heard shuffling, like she might have been reaching for something.  _"The homeless here are terrible at sneaking up on someone. An old woman was following me with her trolley of cans for two days. I figured you had something to do with that. She kept coming back to the alley beside my window when there are no rubbish bins to collect from. Either a strange habit, or something you put her up to."_

He took the phone away from his ear to run a frustrated hand through his hair. One simple thing! No one was reliable in this city, and he longed for London all the more. "When did you leave?"

" _Just a moment ago. I watched you both from across the street before taking a cab, and now I'm ushering myself away for a New Year's celebration amongst friends,"_  She paused for a moment, but there was no click that signified the end of the call.  _"Come to think of it, I've been watching you both all week. I thought you spotted me yesterday."_

"I knew it!" John hissed to him, listening over his shoulder during the call.

A clever strategy he had to admit. Her being in close proximity had never factored into his mind because he had allowed himself to be drawn into the vastness of the city. He realised another upsetting matter as well for her strategy. "My brother has been helping you."

" _He's been known to give sound advice on how to evade capture,"_  There was a smile in her tone that didn't belong. Drawn from a juvenile need to win, he found himself more hostile over the news of Mycroft's intervention into his business, much like it had always been between them.  _"It's not much of a game for him though. He was put-off when I agreed for a sit down with you, if you find me."_

"When I find you," He corrected, having no intention of losing. "You'll be going to a hotel or restaurant I gather. Seeking a large crowd as a last resort."

" _This whole city has served as my shield, and these conversations are your looking glass."_

"Choosing to remain solitary for the final stretch; a moving target is more difficult to capture."

" _I've been moving all week, and I'm tired now Sherlock,"_ He felt her exhaustion, as unexplainable as that was.  _"Playtime is almost over; I might as well make this an interesting finish."_

'We'll see you at the close." He ended the call while noting the time on his phone.

**6:04 P.M.**

"Less than six hours," John said, obviously feeling the pressure as he broke the crushing silence. "Where do we go from here?"

Sherlock starting pacing the small space of her living quarters, noticing subtle details from her bed, the table, the floor, and lastly the air. Few times did she wear perfume, but he could detect the barest hints of the fragrance still lingering. An evening perfume, sharp with musk and lacking in the sweetness of floral scents. "We need to change into something more formal."

John tossed him a funny look. "Why?"

"She's gone to a New Year's celebration, a place of moderate dignity. There are faint marks in the rug by her door, indentations caused from heeled dress shoes. There are traces of make-up powder left behind on the table," He strode over to the tall wardrobe placed against the wall, opening the doors to dig through her garments while John made a sound of protest. "And it's as I thought. She recently purchased a new gown that came in a protective covering."

"I only brought jumpers with me," John admitted sheepishly. "I don't suppose you know where she is going?"

"I'll know that information once we're back on the street," He took one last look in vain at her flat before going to the opened window. "Come John, the clock is ticking and we're at matched speeds."

He was out and down the fire escape before John could say a word. The trek was made with less peril, and he ignored the faces of the passers on the street as he boisterously called for a cab. A yellow car made a slushy halt at the edge of the pavement, narrowly missing his trousers, and he wasted no time in throwing opened the door to hoist himself inside. John was out of breath when he joined him, heading back hastily in the direction of their hotel for a change of clothes.

"Mycroft hasn't contacted you anymore has he?"

He looked at John from his seat, who patiently waited for answers his normal mind prevented him from having. "Fortunately I have been spared the lectures."

"Makes me worry," John commented offhandedly. "What else could we find out from her?"

"You have too high of an opinion of everyone John, and that sets yourself up for disappointment. " The disadvantage of caring. While Sherlock agreed less with that idea now then he once did, he was still selective of those he permitted close to him. He once thought his brother could not be shaken from his firm belief, but recent events that had transpired had him analysing over select scenarios twice over in his Mind Palace. "He would never profess sentiment, but Avery is a valued piece my brother has collected. I suppose in that assessment, there is less to be apprehensive about towards her."

"Or maybe he is just using her for his advantage," That was more likely, but Sherlock made no comment. "Lestrade still hasn't contacted you either?"

"Hmm, better than that we did not spend a week bored."

John grinned slightly. "At least we heard from Garon, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. London still misses us, or at least three people still advocate for you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but faintly smiled. They returned to Midtown, stopping before the Mansfield Hotel as their destination. The accommodations had proved to be more than adequate for their stay, taking into account how little time they had actually spent in the room. Their hurried pace was noticed by the desk clerk in the lobby as they sprinted for the lift, all the while their wet shoes trudged on the opulent rug. Most of their time was being wasted in cabs, but they wouldn't squander the meager amount they had been given now. Standing in the lift with the soft music playing around his head had Sherlock twitching noticeably, and he bolted for the number on their door just as soon as they reached the correct floor.

"What if this celebration of hers has a guest list?" John asked as he rummaged through his bags for something suitable to wear. They hadn't even bothered to unpack this whole time.

"When would she have found time to be acquainted with the upper crust?" The question was derogatory , and said in a rather insensitive manner.

"I don't know," John sniped back brusquely. "She knows your brother; I really can't predict what she does."

The door to the toilet slammed shut as John went to change. Sherlock finished his own last minute touches, adjusting the lengths of his sleeves, the order of his buttons, and keeping the perfect crease in his trousers. His wardrobe significantly lacked neck ties, but his suits were a sight better than John's odious jumpers.

His eyes darted to loo as the door was slowly opened once more. John stood with a grim look, tugging at the bottom of his black jumper to no effect. Smart colour options, but no one would mistake him as a proper gentleman of the upper-class. John frowned dismally towards him. "What, no neck tie?" He asked sarcastically.

Sherlock grinned slightly. "You're a tad under dressed for the occasion."

"For both of our sakes, I hope it's a black tie optional affair."

He was robbed of a chance to reply as both of their phones pinged simultaneously. Messages of a 'Happy New Year' sprang forth from their various friends back home. It was Midnight in London, now giving them just five hours left in the hunt for Avery. "We'd best be on our way. There is little chance of her backing out now."

"Funny thing is, I half expected she would," John mumbled quietly. "Silly idea though. A player for Mycroft would never forfeit."

"Don't be so certain she does everything by order of my brother," Sherlock warmed him lightly. "Remember how this game began."

With a reserved nod John agreed, and they left for the hallway with coats in hand. They passed no one and the lift was vacant, a clear sign that everyone was already out in preparation to celebrate for New Year's. Sherlock thought again of Avery's pattern of avoidance, pondering the cunningness of simplicity. Was it a desire to be caught that kept her close to them this passing week?

"Sherlock?" John's voice called, and he realised the lift had stopped once more on the ground floor. "What are we going to do?"

He took a careful step forward onto the polished white floors, looking around the lobby at the clerks and bellhops. Live music had started from the direction of the bar, the tables and stools filling up with guests from both outside and in the hotel. Formal wear, moderately dignified.

"John, I'm wondering if you could step outside for a moment. A woman will be there waiting, middle-aged, wearing a brown coat. She'll have the last known whereabouts on Avery."

He started to turn away before John stopped him with a hurried sentence. "Wait, where are you going?"

"For a drink." He said easily.

John's face twisted into confusion. "Since when do you drink?"

"Rarely unless the occasion calls for me to do so." He turned away once again while calling over his shoulder. "Try to hurry back. I'll be at the bar."

He left his doctor befuddled as he strode towards the bar. A large area that could fit up to an estimate of seventy-five patrons at a time. The smell of rich liquor floated in the air, of the guests that were their sipping cocktails and wines. He walked his way between the rows of tables, up to the barman who was serving drinks. Avery had told him she wasn't supposed to have friends, so why word it as a  _'celebration amongst friends'_?" He spied a glass of amber liquor sitting atop a folded white napkin, no smear of lipstick on the rim.

"Was there someone previously seated here?" He asked the barman, who paused in the making of a martini to answer him.

"Yeah, a woman, but she left a little while ago now. Told me to watch her drink, but I'm starting to doubt she's coming back."

Sherlock slid over to the stool, leaning over the untouched drink as he inhaled the scent. He immediately recognised it as a brand of scotch that Mycroft often sipped on in his office at the Diogenes Club.

" _I take sobriety very seriously."_

Avery had said that to him the day of Taylor's service when he had touched on the matter of her past addiction. She had been without insult to his remark, and ever calm with her answer. He carefully lifted the glass and set it aside, taking the paper napkin with the tucked corner from beneath. He unfurled it, aware that the barman's eyes were on him with question. "I can make you a clean drink if you want?"

"Not for the moment, but thank you." Sherlock remarked curtly. His eyes were busy darting over the neat penmanship scrawled on the paper, of the brief words that he had proof of Avery's presence in the hotel.

"If you're not going to drink, then free up that seat for someone who will." The barman spoke again, annoyance laced in his tone

Without comment Sherlock rose up from the seat, head remaining down as he studied over the paper again with excitement. His hand started to shake with anticipation, and he inhaled the familiar scent of  _Poison_  by Dior on the napkin, the very same that had wafted around the air in her flat. His blood rushed, swelling the monster of craving and need in his heart. His eyes dilated and his bones rattled, an old disease crawling on his skin with his eye on the prize. Avery was what he was after, and she knew just how to tantalize him, the clever words smartly crafted onto the serviette. ' _London or New York?'_

**It was now 7:15 P.M.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're getting close to the end of the chase! How will it all go down, and will John and Sherlock be able to find anything out about Avery?! So much to come with the next update, and we're starting to see a little more into Sherlock's reactions to Avery too, and it will be even better once the chase will be concluded.
> 
> Next chapter: John's POV, all around the Mansfield Hotel for Avery.


	16. The Number Six

Coming back from outside the hotel, John was left confused by his confrontation with who he supposed was another one of Sherlock's New York homeless network. He had inquired about Avery's whereabouts just as he was instructed, only to be sent right back inside with little explanation as to how events had changed. His reaction to the news of Avery being in the Mansfield was felt with both joy and panic simultaneously. She was so close, but there was still that chance that she could escape their grasp, slip through their fingers, dodge the bullet, and any other metaphor there was that aptly described the situation should it come to pass.

He re-entered the lobby with the renewed purpose of finding Sherlock. While he had told John he would remain at the bar, John knew how Sherlock could break little promises like that on a whim should he have to seek out information at the drop of a hat. More people had gravitated towards that general area, and he could not immediately make out that familiar head of jet curls. He started walking at a vigorous pace, in a hurry to tell the detective what he found out, elbowing through a large group of oncoming people as he went. As he was going at such a rate that couldn't be stopped, he almost knocked a dark haired woman off her feet as he went, then colliding against an older gentleman who shot him a peeved look.

As he straightened his posture to peek his head over the dissipating crowd, he spotted Sherlock coming out of the bar, his head down and looking at something in his hand.  _So much for staying in one place._ John shoved his way over before he could lose sight of him, weaving his way through the rest of the groups of people that seemed to coagulate into one large mass. He raised his arm, stretching it out forward as if to grasp on to a piece of invisible rope that was tethered to Sherlock.

"Wait, stop!" He exclaimed loudly enough for Sherlock to distinguish his voice amongst the crowd.

"Honestly John, what kept you?" There was no warm greeting or mark of concern, and John took comfort in the bare-faced honesty that he was so familiar with from Sherlock. He was finally able to see what it was that had Sherlock so preoccupied; a tiny slip of a napkin in his hand with something scribbled on the starchy white surface. "I take it you've found our lead then?"

"Er—yes," John said as his eyes followed the napkin being tantalisingly waved before him. "What is that?"

"In a minute John. What have you found out from my homeless network?" Sherlock said, taking the napkin and hiding it behind his back childishly.

Ignoring his curiosity and trying to be patient was a difficult thing to do at the same time, and in Sherlock's company no less, but he focused his eyes back on his flatmate, mind still occupied on whatever was on that paper. "She is in the hotel apparently. Your source tells me that Avery went right up to her and told her to inform us she's here."

"Competent to the last, that is relieving." Sherlock said with smirk of confidence.

"Who, Avery?"

"No, the homeless. Keep up please," Sherlock brought the napkin from around his back, shoving it in front of John's face, causing the writing to blur and making it impossible for him to read. "This isn't so much of a white flag of surrender as it is a taunt."

John took a step back and peeled the paper from Sherlock's hand, frowning at him as he did it. "' _London or New York?'_  what does that mean?"

"I have two possible theories that are most likely the meaning behind the message. It could mean where this game could lead us, but as of right now I am in the unknown of her reason for being here, or even if she can return to London. It could be a question of which I prefer of the two cities, though the answer is obvious for everyone, though my affinity for home is causing us to falter."

"Did you just admit to fault," John asked incredulously to which he received a most withering look from the Consulting Detective. Admitting to any amount of flaw was almost inconceivable for Sherlock, so being merciful, John decided to drop it. "Alright, alright, sorry about that. What's the little slip-up we keep making?"

"I'll have you know solecism is something rare we'll come across," He continued to make his point clear haughtily, still offended from John's previous statement. "All this time I've had us searching for the Avery we had come to know of in London, which was a mistake."

There was a pause in which Sherlock gave John a calculated look to judge whether or not he was following what was being said. Of course he wasn't, not entirely anyway. "Err—sure."

"Why was it a mistake John?" Sherlock tested.

His shoulders sagged, and he wanted to hang his head low in his hand for Sherlock's insistence. "Can't you just tell me? We'd be finished much more quickly if you did."

"The easy way out, really?"

"We're still losing!" John cried aloud, drawing attention from some of the bystanders walking past.

Sherlock's eyes had blown wide in alarm, though he was quick to rectify that by conducting himself in a calm manner. "There's no need to cause a scene and draw unnecessary attention towards us John. If you had waited a moment longer, you would know I was going to tell you the answer." His quiet tone held guilt, and John scowled at him when detecting the lie.

"Oh you prat, you did that on purpose," He shook his head and started to walk away from his flatmate, Avery's napkin still in his hand that he had crushed into a ball when his fingers had clenched tightly in a fist at his side. The paper was wasted on him anyway, but he refused to let go of it. He knew before even looking that Sherlock was following behind him, whether or not realising that he was annoyed with him. "Are you going to help now?"

"I expect you will need my assistance," Sherlock remarked confidently. "You have no idea where you are going after all."

"But you do?"

"Yes," They stopped at the lifts in the lobby, the little lights on the buttons aglow and John wondered if he was supposed to be pressing one as Sherlock waited beside him expectantly. "You passed through a fairly large crowd before reaching me."

John furrowed his brow, turning towards Sherlock curiously. "Right, what about it?"

"You smell distinctly of ' _Poison_ ', the fragrance that occupied Avery's flat, and if you take a second look at her note you might just detect the familiar scent."

Half crazed and half awed, John did as Sherlock suggested by unfurling the napkin from its crumpled state to bring it up close to his face. He wafted his hand in the direction of his nose, immediately picking up the notes of a woman's perfume. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he plucked the corner on the collar of his jumper, inhaling it also to notice the match. "You mean I strode right past her?"

"Obviously," Sherlock retorted, but with no malice in his tone. "A simple miss. I suppose you were keeping watch for her blonde hair."

"Should I not have been?" Her shock of short, light hair was easy to spot in a bustling room, and John had made sure it was always on his radar since they had landed in New York, but it never occurred to him that she would have been donning a disguise.

"She likes the thrill of keeping close, unseen," Sherlock grew silent for a moment, receding into his thoughts before his eyes flitted back to John. "Check the pockets of your coat."

John gave him an odd look, but didn't question him as he starting searching through his coat that he had left on him since retreating outside. "What am I looking for?"

"You should find there is nothing on you now."

"But what's the point of—" John stopped speaking as his hand felt around the empty space of his front, left pocket, fingers searching frenetically for what was missing. Sherlock casually leaned over to press the lift button to go up, his expression stoic as John let out a sound of frustration. "She took the room key!"

"You need to be more aware." Sherlock commented as he stepped onto the lift as the doors parted on the ground floor before them.

John followed after him, fuming silently to a degree at the thought of how close Avery had been and how he hadn't noticed. His senses had failed him, and he wondered if they were as poor as Sherlock always liked to jest they were. "What's she doing here at the hotel anyway?"

"Staving off boredom, dabbling in her skills of concealment, going against my brother's order," Sherlock listed off in the silence of the lift that they were lucky to have caught alone. Of course, Sherlock had pressed the button to close the doors at the last second before the man running towards them to catch it had a chance. John had seen his red face just before the thick doors had completely slid together, and Sherlock had remained unaffected while standing beside him. "She wants to be caught, but on her own terms."

"But why?"

"Hmm." The thrumming hum was the only response he received in return from Sherlock before the lift stopped on their floor.

The sound of their shoes marching against the dark carpet was made with dull thuds that sounded impossibly loud to John in the quiet of the corridor. Not a soul was with them, yet he suspected Avery had just been there; something about her presence being there had lingered, as odd as it sounded. Sherlock still had his room key card with him, and they used that to slowly enter inside, John following behind Sherlock as he took the first few steps into the darkness.

"It is quite unlikely she is still here, but look for anything out of place."

"You think she left another clue, like the napkin?" John asked to confirm.

"We are supposed to be seeking her out," Sherlock said as he turned on the main light, casting the room in a dim glow. "I suspect it eases her guilt of betraying my brother by creating the illusion that we could actually lose this game."

"We still could." John argued, not nearly as confident in their endeavors as his friend.

John peered over Sherlock's shoulder while trying his best to notice any changes in the room that might have been caused by Avery. It was difficult because he assumed that everything was exactly as they had left it, the result of not memorizing where anything had been in the first place.

"She sat down for a moment, right here on my bed, it being the closest one to the door," Sherlock stepped over to the edge of his bed, brushing his hand over the barely disturbed quilt with a tender touch. He took a seat at the edge where she had been, eyes darting around at a fast pace as he looked to recover her previous steps. The springs and the softness of the mattress caused him to bounce in place, and he resembled a child to John, right down to the petulant frown on his face. "It's faint, but her perfume lingered, and I can see marks in the carpet from her shoes, dark streaks where it has been dragged against the grain."

"I'm checking the toilet. Maybe there's a chance she left something behind there for us to find."

"No."

Sherlock immediately shot down the idea, prompting John to roll his eyes as he went ahead into the loo regardless of what his friend said. When he turned the light on, he half expected to see a message written in lipstick across the mirror, but nothing of that dramatic effect was to be found. The area around the sink was spotless, the towels were in place, and he doubted if she had done anything to the various sundries scattered about the place. If he was Sherlock he might have been able to distinguish whether or not she had even flipped the light switch, but it was just another one of those things that he could not read into.

"Well did you find anything then?" He sighed in exasperation as he stepped back into the main room, finding that Sherlock was not on the bed where he had last left him, but instead standing behind the front door to the suite.

" _Hurry, or the door will remain closed_ ," Sherlock read aloud from a note that had the same scrawl as the note from the bar; Avery. "She left it here on the back of the door, tied in this."

John took the solid black necktie from Sherlock as he offered it, the smooth silk material gliding between his fingers as he studied over the thin strip of material. "Why black?"

"Her colour of choice for the evening. You should know this John, that it's a common thing for a man to colour coordinate with his female paramour for a formal evening. This is simply her way of letting us know what to look for."

"It's a good thing she didn't leave it tied to the door handle on the outside." John jested with a chuckle before growing awkward as Sherlock responded to his little joke with a blank expression. "Err—you know the whole universal message of the sock or necktie to the doorknob, indicating that there's a couple engaged in—"

"Sexual intercourse, yes I know that. Why would Avery have need of that?"

The honest confusion in his tone had John balking. "Well she is a woman."

Sherlock blinked twice before replying. "A well spotted observation John."

John felt himself puff up with irritation before taking a deep breath to calm himself. He was mindful that Sherlock reacted differently to Avery—by his account—but whether or not that was intentional had yet to be decided upon. "You're the one who mistakenly thought she and Max were shagging. Is it suddenly so hard to believe she would be in that type of a relationship with someone?"

"I initially misread the signs, but by now we know Max's feelings were brought on by Avery's similar appearance to his late wife. Avery's sentiment felt in return was strictly platonic, nothing of a carnal nature was going on John," Sherlock frowned slightly as he tucked the latest note into his coat pocket. "This conversation has little to do with the game, and we have no time for irrelevancies."

With a glance at his mobile, John realized Sherlock was right, even though it felt like he was dodging. It was already past nine, and they had less than three hours to go in their search. "So what does the note mean then?"

"We are looking for a place here that has something to do with London, and it will be closing within the hour. The first message, ' _London or New York_ ', something that is like home, but is here," Sherlock paced the small space of the entryway, hands folded together at his chin as he thought. "And the second note, ' _Hurry, or the door will remain closed_ ', an establishment that's closing hours are slowly encroaching upon us. Where might this lead us to?"

The revelation swept over John like a tidal wave on the beach, missing Sherlock's form entirely from his distance at the rocks. Something like this had never happened before; that he should figure something out before Sherlock, and he felt almost giddy at the simplicity of the idea. "I know what she's talking about!"

Sherlock's eye looked close to twitching as he halted all movement, giving John a critical look from his narrow face. "I would be very interested to hear your thoughts."

"Wait, just let me hold on to this a moment longer. This is a once in a lifetime feeling right now, that I actually thought of the answer before you."

"Oh," Sherlock's smirk smote John's happy mood instantly, and he could almost smell the leftover smoke from the extinguished wick of his elation. "There's a fish and chips restaurant right in Midtown, five streets up from here. Of course that's it."

John scowled from Sherlock's smugness, his back already turned as he reached for the door. Sherlock locked the door with his key card since his was still absent with Avery, though he kept the silk necktie tucked safely in his coat pocket to trade her for it later. It was a valuable material after all, and he didn't much feel like getting into trouble with the manager at the Mansfield over a misplaced key.

"How far is she going to make us go?" Exhaustion crept into his tone without his consent, and for the first time John felt tired while out on a chase with Sherlock. Maybe the two year absence had weakened his stamina for such things, and it would eventually turn up to him again while out in the field. John still loved the battle, but maybe it was the company of a nurse he was in need of. God he wanted a date.

"To the last possible minute that she can spare."

He was loath to admit that Sherlock's response displeased him, but he carried on after him, down the lift and to the lobby that was still every bit as busy as it had been since their going. They walked through the noise and heat that had accumulated on the ground floor, towards the tinted doors that show the lights to the streets outside, and the people and cars going to-and-fro. John could hear the collected gasps of excitement from the people occupying the space by the main entrance, looking gleeful at the light snowfall that had begun.

"Tighten your collar and put on your gloves John," Sherlock commented as he pulled at his scarf. "We're walking the five streets from here. We can't trust in the cabs now, too unreliable with our tight time-frame."

"But it's snowing," His lip curled up in slight distaste as he whined about the change in weather. "Oh sod it, you'll go regardless."

They entered out into the night, pushing through the throngs of people that had taken a hold of the streets. Shouting and celebrating could be heard in the not too far off distance, reminding them again of what day it was. Not that they were ever the type to go all out for New Year's Eve anyway, but John felt as if they were missing out on something this time. His stomach was talking, gurgling with hunger only to remember he hadn't eaten anything but for a bag of crisps. As for Sherlock, John couldn't say for certain if he had eaten anything the entire trip, or if he had slept for that matter.

"Which way is it?" John called through the blowing breeze, his cheeks frozen as shards of snowflakes struck his flesh.

"To the left and down." Sherlock said, his dark features glowing as he walked under the light of each passing streetlamp. He came off as excitable each time John saw the confident grin on his face, and he knew he'd have to thank Avery one day for keeping Sherlock on his toes for a week. No easy feat that.

They turned at the end of a street, the pavement angling down like the track on a roller-coaster as it opened up into a row of shops and cafés. Christmas decorations still dwelled in most of the windows in the passing days of the holiday, lights or plastic Santa Claus' bringing a cheery air. John spied the sign hanging above the fish and chips café, and the black ink numbers on the front window depicting the hours of operation. Sherlock shoved at the door, the little bell above their heads ringing upon their entrance. They both examined the quaint restaurant, all the stools and tall round tables empty of occupants. An older gentleman was manning the front counter while a teenage employee was cleaning up the discarded cups and napkins at the tables.

"She's not here." John said, looking down the back way to the kitchen where he suspected the toilet and break room to be.

"No, it's not the right time for her to remain dormant. Her final destination is somewhere out there," He pointed out the window to the streets before his head spun back around quickly to survey the café. The movement had been done so hastily, John thought he might have given himself whiplash. "But she'll have left something behind for us. Three clues, she's very routine."

"Good thing for us." John commented offhandedly.

Sherlock went up to the counter, startling the man working behind it when he was suddenly in his face. "Excuse me."

"Oh sorry son, we're closing in five minutes and we're not taking any more orders now."

"I have some questions that need answering, I'm not here for a meal. I wouldn't touch fish and chips made anywhere outside of London," He replied haughtily. John winced from Sherlock's tone and the scowl on the manager's face. It was probably for the best they didn't order food from there now, lest Sherlock be served a filet of battered fish with a side order of mucus from it being sneezed on. "I'm looking for someone who might have come here tonight. You would have taken notice of her."

"Let me guess, tall broad, accent like yours, and dressed fancy." The man replied as he perched himself on his elbow.

"That's her!" John interrupted with a cry of excitement, leaving Sherlock to flap his lips with a voiceless answer. "Was she here with anyone?"

"No, mostly kept to herself in the back booth over there. She didn't even finish her order."

Sherlock was headed over to the back booth that the manager indicated to with his thumb, his eyes critical as he looked over the table that had been previously scrubbed clean with a sodden rag by the young waiter. "What did she order?" He asked evenly.

"A number six," The manager said, pointing to the menu above him while he opened the cash register, never raising his head up from his task to look at them. "Look, there's nothing you can order now, and I'm going to have to ask you to leave. We're cashing out."

"Did she say anything before leaving at least?" John asked with a hint of pleading in his voice, all while Sherlock remained oddly quietly for this type of situation.

"Yeah, wished me a happy New Year," The man said with attitude. "Now unless you two cops here have a warrant for her arrest or something, I'd suggest you leave. There's no crime in a woman ordering a quick meal and soda."

"His sarcastic tone rubbed John the wrong way, but Sherlock appeared unperturbed by the glaring resentment as he strode away from the table and back towards the counter. "Never mind that John, we can catch up to her. She's not far from here now."

"Within walking distance I hope." John said, though not looking forward to heading back out in the snow.

"The walking will do you good. Your jumpers are starting to get a little snug, particularly around the middle."

"Hey, it's still leftover from the holidays." John affronted as they rushed out the front door.

" _Mr. Holmes, wait a second!"_

They paused with their feet hitting the pavement, looking back to find that the awkward looking waiter who had remained quiet during their investigation in the café had followed them outdoors. He shivered slightly from the cold in his thin white uniform, and his hook nose glowed red the moment the wind breathed against it. "Can I stop you for just a minute?"

"If you must." Sherlock said somewhat impatiently.

"The woman you were talking about, she left me this to give to you. Said someone with your description would come looking, but I thought she was just being funny," He bent a hand forward, dangling a thin piece of paper in his hand. "It's her receipt."

Sherlock snatched it out from his hold, eyes moving over the slip faster than John could keep up with. If he was surprised by anything that was there, he didn't let on about it, coming off as cool and casual as he finally looked back to the waiter. "Is that all then?"

"Yeah," He cleared his throat nervously with a small smile. "I guess you want to get back to your search then. Good luck."

Sherlock made an irritated sound in his throat, the same one every time ' _luck_ ' was mentioned. "She told him to say that on purpose."

"I somehow doubt that. It's a common expression," John refuted with a veiled grin. "So, what's the last clue?"

"She wrote ' _To the end and back_ ', and her order number was six. Something that goes to and from around the city, public where she can remain concealed, but also where we'll be in plain sight of each other," Sherlock rambled off as he started walking ahead. "The subway; the six-train to be exact. There's a station not far from here."

John's brows rose from the news, and he quickly scuttled after Sherlock in short, fast steps. He was trusting Sherlock completely to lead them to where they needed to go. As it was, he hardly ever took the tube while living in London, so the New York subway was fairly daunting when he considered the scope of how far it went and how many connections there were. The dark stairwell had people coming and going regardless of the late hour, though he dared not lay a hand on the railing whether or not he had gloves on. The sanitary side of his medical brain reminded him of the matter of how many people's hands grazed the metal rails every day, and how much chewed gum would be stuck on the underside.

The station underground was brightly lit, with signs to each street and location hanging up on boards from the ceiling. Concrete beams stood apart, holding up the foundation and were brightly painted sky blue with numbers etched on each one. A few people occupied the metal benches chained to the ground, waiting for the next train to come, and there was a couple sharing in an intimate embrace by one of the rubbish bins. The sound of the one flickering neon light above their heads gave John a headache, but he did his best to endure as they finally reached the bottom step to the station. Their presence went ignored, and he was going to make a nonsensical comment to Sherlock before the Consulting Detective took off forward abruptly, leaping over a turnstile as he went.

"Wait, where are you going?" John cried, trying to follow his example. It was his poor luck that his jacket snagged on the turnstile when he went to go through, paying the fee that Sherlock had neglected.

The upcoming lights of the train illuminated the track as it pulled up, and John lost sight of Sherlock for a moment when people started to depart from the train. He let out a cry of triumph when he finally got free of the turnstile, feet tripping over themselves for a moment before he righted his position like nothing embarrassing had just occurred. Sherlock was no longer standing anywhere on the station platform, and he immediately knew that he must have stepped on to one of the cars without him. The mystery of which one was suddenly presenting itself.

"Dammit Sherlock." He cursed as he went ahead and stepped on to the nearest train car. It wasn't as full as it might have been during the morning of a work day, and John was able to see past the heads and the seated people, never once gazing upon the dark curls he was looking for. He made a sound of irritation, pulling out his phone from his coat while sending out a quick message to Sherlock.

_**Where are you? –JW** _

He starting walking to the next train, almost stumbling when the doors shut, though they had not begun to move ahead on the track yet, and he needed to find Sherlock before it did or else he wouldn't be able to pass between the train cars. He grabbed on to one of the poles for balance, nearly falling into a pair of people as he adjusted to the sudden movement. His phone pinged and he struggled to reach for it with one hand to read the message.

 _**2** _ _**nd** _ _**car 2 the front, stop dawdling –SH** _

Brief and to the point, he was used to Sherlock's quick and sometimes difficult to understand texts. He swung his way off the pole, contorting and shifting his body to fit between the tight rows of seats as he walked his way up the train, counting in his head which car he was passing through. The train gave an abrupt jolt and he ran through the threshold of the next doorway just in time for it to shut as the train started to pull away from the platform. His eyes darted about until they found Sherlock's familiar dark and narrow figured huddled up against a pole to his side, his one hand grasping carefully against the metal while his other arm was rested on the waist of the figure next to him. They appeared to be engaged in a hushed conversation, the emotions of it hidden to him from only being able to see the sides of their faces. The air was felt with a demure chill by him, wondering what it was Sherlock could be saying to her. John was also confused by her long dark hair, but her heather eyes were all too friendly for him to forget, and she finally glanced over at him, ending whatever had been going on with the Consulting Detective.

"Look who decided to show up," Avery smiled through the heavy make-up he was unadjusted to seeing on her face. The bright red on her lips bloomed wide like a rose, and her coal painted eyes glistened with welcoming as she broke away from Sherlock's hold to invite him over. "I wasn't going to answer any of his questions until you showed up first John."

"Err—really?" He asked lamely. "Sorry, but your new hair is throwing me off."

Her eyes darted up to the dark locks curling down from her roots to her shoulders as if she had forgotten it was there. "Don't worry, it isn't my real hair. Just a ruse."

"Right, for us?"

"Actually I was doing something for Mycroft because he took care of some business for me in Bristol."

"What kind of business?" He couldn't help but blurt out, feeling bashful as he did.

"That's no concern for either of you," She said calmly before lighting up with a burst of energy. "Oh, I suppose Happy New Years are in order."

She leaned forward to brush a kiss against his cheek, which resulted in him inhaling much of her sultry perfume. He rubbed the cool spot on his cheek as she pulled away, just in time to notice she did the same gesture to Sherlock; a simple kiss to the cheek. There was a distant gaze in his friend's eyes, and John couldn't decode the reason, though he would be sure to ask on it at a later time. "Wait, New Year? It's only ten twenty-three." He said while looking to his mobile.

She waved her hand in an indifferent motion. "So what. In London it's already been New Years for over three hours."

She took one of the empty seats beside the pole she had occupied with Sherlock, and it granted John the first full view of her that he hadn't seen since home. Her coat was undone by the top button, revealing the the start of the black evening gown beneath, one with a startling neckline. It plunged in a thin slit down to the top of her navel, and everything from her sternum to the slight sides of her breasts were exposed. This certainly wasn't the head of security he remembered, and Sherlock had likely picked up on that already. There was something else in her appearance that John realised was familiar, though it had to do with more recent events.

"I bumped into you in the lobby at the Mansfield." He declared with recognition.

"Glad you remembered that, though we had similar close encounters all week, you just never noticed." She stated unfazed.

"Where did they happen?"

"I'll tell you in time, but first let's head to a more suitable location for this conversation. I can see Sherlock is dying to ask something, it's nearly killing him to remain quiet."

Sherlock was conveying an austere look, but he took a seat on the bench beside her to keep anymore talks arising on the matter. John joined on the other side of Avery, the three of them stuck close together with nothing but the dulcet sounds of the New York subway floating around them as it carried them away, to the end and back again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry for that long wait, but I was having some health issues that came up out of nowhere and it delayed me from writing. Hopefully I will be able to update more quickly next time.  
> And now Avery is here to become a player in another game that will start shortly after the questioning period is done with John and Sherlock. I'm dying to get back into Sherlock's mind over her reappearance again, and that will likely be the case for next chapter as I have no reason to see things from Avery's mind as of yet. Stay tuned, I think you know what's to come, or at least that it will be questioning. Reveals will come, and will more secrets of course ;)


	17. Resolutions Broken

Sherlock stared blankly ahead at the window of the train opposite of him, watching the dark tunnel pass by while thoughts of recent occurrences were reviewed a second time in his head. Avery's and John's reflections were visible to him through the glass, only being considered because slowly the same small frown had returned to Avery's mouth, noticeable to him because he had been waiting for it. She had fooled John with small changes— her appearance, her words, her personality—but the guise lacked proper effort to provide a convincing veil for him to believe, and she was more recognisable to him now than she had even been in London.

She had let them win the game, an irksome facet that he continued to maul over. And his brother had been to Bristol on her behalf, which raised more questions about the nature of their correlation. Friendship maybe? Trust, most certainly. Mycroft only trusted a number of people that he could tally on one hand, so therein the majority of the reliance was felt on Avery's side. Something was in Bristol that she would only have his brother deal with. He needed to be home more than he realised.

In his ability to see through her ruse, there was one aspect that had momentarily caught him off guard, and it persisted to put him off of his thoughts. Her choice of clothing made it glaringly obvious that she was female, something he often forgot or disregarded while in her presence. Even for Taylor's service she had not donned a black frock of mourning. Often her outward appearance might have had some questioning her sexual preference, though he had only ever deduced that she was apathetic to anything of that nature in general. There was still the minor detail of a past lover, but she had kept mum on the matter, and it would remain irrelevant until it wasn't.

The leering from the other male occupants of the train were unsightly, and she only ever gazed back with a challenge in her eyes if one of her admirers were to speak up. The décolleté neckline was bewitching to the weak and sexually starved; a repulsive thing to witness. The pale bit of flesh drew in those spectators like vultures to a festering corpse, eyes hovering as they devoured the sight of her revealed breastbone. Sherlock wanted to put a shroud between them and her, and he harshly tugged off his scarf before shifting in his seat to fix it around her neck unexpectedly.

Avery did a pullback, her face washed in surprise before she let him finish his task. "Why are you doing that?"

"Because you're giving some of the male passengers' nosebleeds." He retorted from the hip.

Peripherally he could see John shaking his head. "There has got to be a better way of wording that."

Avery let out a dry laugh, sitting back straight between them. "Don't worry about it John. I think that's a very delicate way of saying someone's feeling randy."

"I suppose I could have said something selectively crude John. That some of the male passengers are se—"

"Alright nope," John interrupted with wide eyes of amazement. "The way you said it was just fine."

There was a lapse in silence until he watched as Avery felt his scarf carefully between her fingers, taking in the scent with a little twitch to her nose. "I see someone has failed to quit smoking." She said with a knowing look, pulling the material away from her face.

"Who has time to keep up with such resolutions these days?" He questioned back rhetorically. "I'll wager you've done no better."

"Actually I haven't had a fag since my last one outside of the Diogenes Club. I felt like I had something to prove, as if my integrity was at stake." She half shrugged, and her success caused him some amount of annoyance.

"So you've been smoking behind my back then?" John interjected from the other side, looking peeved.

"All of the signs were there. You might have noticed I had run out of patches weeks ago." And he couldn't have bothered to buy anymore, so many cases piling up at once.

"It will be New Years in under two hours, make another resolution," Avery said in a way that wasn't a suggestion. "Try again."

He didn't bother to reply, though he felt suffocated from the weight of those words, difficult to measure and worse yet to carry. The train conveyed them through the unfamiliar city, on an even stranger night towards where he decided was back to her living quarters. If he focused hard enough, he could pretend for a moment that he was back on the tube, but his imagination could never carry him for long, so self-aware and stuck in reality as he was. Only once had he associated his high functioning mind as a curse, and it had been during darker days of addiction, that strangulating need to do away with sight and become numb. Something eerily similar was close to encroaching on him then, but he was able to push it away just as the train began to slow into a new platform.

"You can stay at my studio tonight since I doubt this is going to be a short visit," Avery said, coming to a stand as she took a hold on the metal bar before her. "It's a small space, but I'm sure we'll work something out."

"We leave tomorrow afternoon for London; the tickets that Max purchased for us," John commented as they followed after her. "Are you coming back with us?"

Her posture stiffened and tightened like a river succumbed to frost, but she didn't make her answer until they were out of the car of the train. They followed her under the light of the platform, to the stairwell that would lead them above ground. "A loaded question that. I'm afraid that's impossible John, not in the cards for me right now."

Her vacant eyes surveyed the doctor's face as she paused in her step to gauge his reaction. Sherlock reflected on the matter of the last words he had received from his brother on the matter, something of harmful consequences that his meddling would bring. Something was keeping her out of London, or someone, and Mycroft knew something about it. "You might be interested to learn that Ms. Greenly's murderer could not be charged."

The anticipated reaction of her brows furrowing and the darkening of her eyes came swiftly, the first accomplishment in steering her in the direction he needed. "Why not?"

"He was shot before we had a chance to bring him in for questioning. A paid serial killer, though he lost his usefulness once we had apprehended him at the practise."

Avery narrowed her eyes at him, appearing thoughtful before she formulated her answer. "Paid serial killer? Honestly, you followed me down here on the suspicions that a dead man has returned to run his criminal empire, and you think I can help you?"

"Well," John piped up awkwardly. "She saw through to that quickly."

He ignored John for the moment, still fixated on Avery. "What is death but another ruse, no different than the one you wear now? Death is not so final anymore."

"Far too much of that going around these days," She murmured softly, clearly not meaning for them to hear. "I'll entertain your theories, but not out here in public. The subway is dirty enough without our talks of Consulting Criminals adding to it."

She started for the stairs again, John quickly stepping in beside him to take her place as they slowly followed behind her darkly clothed figure. "What ruse is she wearing exactly? She doesn't seem the same to me."

"But she is, you just aren't looking properly." Sherlock refuted.

John looked skeptical in return. "Maybe you need to teach me to ' _see Avery_ ' again."

If that's what it took to get John in the right frame of mind for the questioning, then he would have to do so. His blogger probably wasn't expecting him to take up that suggestion, as John's eyes widened with alarm as he boldly stepped forward. "I'll prove it to you."

"You really don't have to do that." John assured, his voice higher with panic.

Ignoring that distressed plea, he went about behind Avery's turned back, halting her from going forward as he gripped her securely by her shoulders. She let out a surprised yelp as he spun her around, pressing her back to the wall. "What are you doing?" She inquired sharply.

"Making something clear. Hold still a moment," He made sure she was in place for his inspection, her back tight to the wall as his gloved hands slowly trailed down her sleeved arms. She kept her face blank as he went about the task, though he read a small amount of irritation in her eyes. He crouched down to the ground, right hand wrapped around her left ankle that was exposed from her choice to wear high-heeled shoes. "Stand with your feet apart." He instructed.

"You really don't have to do that," John interjected. "Sherlock, stop."

"It's alright John," Avery said with a steely edge in her voice. "Let's see what point he has to prove."

"Sometimes he goes too far." John warned her, though with less conviction as he stood and watched.

It only seemed too far because people were so sensitive of personal boundaries these days. Nevertheless, he pressed forward, his hand slowly gliding up the length of Avery's pale leg beneath the dark cloak of her gown. She steadied her footing with a hand on his shoulder, bracing herself with those musician's fingers that had not been put to proper use in a time gap he measured to be in years. Her calf was strong, the muscle tense under his hold as he kept his movements traveling upward, past the knee and to the inside of her soft thigh. The flesh was pliable under his leather gloved fingertips, but it was nothing bodily that he was after, and he smiled with satisfaction as he grazed over the offending item he had been searching for.

"It's as I thought," His hand moved to her outer thigh, quickly taking the object off of her person. "My proof John." He said, standing up from his crouched position to toss John the small, black revolver.

John fumbled to catch it, securing it between both of his hands with a wide-eyed look while swallowing thickly. "A gun?"

"Well what did you think John; that he was trying to cop a feel?" Avery chuckled in amusement, pushing Sherlock back with some force that told him she was uncomfortable with the proximity.

"So you really aren't some social elitist who gossips over wine and cheese?"

"No, and I'm insulted you think so," She reached up with her hands, pulling the brunette wig from her head while shaking out her short blonde hair beneath. It was slightly dishevelled and had maybe grown an inch in length since last they had seen her at their flat. It was all John needed to see to look convinced about her identity. "Besides, I wasn't going to walk about the dark streets of this city, wearing this ridiculous dress without something that guarantees my safety."

"You really are comfortable around guns." John murmured as he handed the weapon back to her to go with the thigh holster beneath her skirts.

"Oh, so you did get my gift then. The post can be unreliable." She righted herself as best she could, less frazzled than one might have been considering how close Sherlock had come into contact with her to get to the gun.

"Why are you here?" John blurted almost as if he couldn't stop himself. "I mean . . . why did Mycroft send you away?"

"I'm not answering any questions until we're indoors, so don't waste them all up front," She replied evenly. "And I'm only granting you ten questions, for finding me at the tenth hour."

John appeared astonished by something, and Sherlock knew what that would be. "Wait, so if we had caught you later, that would have earned us two more questions?"

"Yes, what fun is a chase that ends early? Though it was bad luck for me that the train was late tonight, otherwise I would have been gone and you two would have been too late."

She had banked her hopes on the train being late, wanting to be caught. Sherlock had no reason as of yet to bring this to John's attention, withholding it for a later time when it would become relevant. Never show all of your cards too early, something he had learned outside of card games as well as its usefulness in gambling, and he deduced that Avery operated by the same principle.

The dark stairwell led them back above ground, the streets bathed in the light of the city while the clouded sky continued to drop snow down upon them. John, not bothering to be discreet, slowed beside him with the eagerness to speak. "So how are we going to go about these ten questions then?"

"It would be best if I started," He said candidly, not stopping to use a coddling response. "It would be better if you could keep from asking the first thing that comes to mind, but if you feel it is important, consult me first."

"What, you're going to measure the significance of my questions?" John didn't sound surprised, though he didn't keep the insult he felt from creeping into his words.

"Ten is a small number to you; your reaction to the news of them was obvious. If used properly, I can find out what I need in eight."

"Even if she gives cryptic responses?"

"So long as she keeps from blatant refusal to answer." Cryptic from Avery was nothing new, something she had learned to do from his brother, and he had established the counteraction to reading between such things to those who wished to guard their secrets. "Besides, she never said all ten questions have to be used up tonight."

"But she's not coming back to London, she said so herself."

That wouldn't do. He would have to take extra care to make sure Avery would be back in London with them, in propinquity where he needed her to be. "Plans change."

John tossed him a curious look, but kept from commenting as they turned up on a familiar street, to the row of dark brown brick buildings, one in particular that housed her ' _studio apartment_ '. Avery paused at the front door, balancing carefully on her tall shoes as she fished around for her key. John was handed the wig to hold, and he looked positively terrified of the thing, as if it was the corpse of a rat. The three of them crowded up the small set of stairs, but they were freed to move inside once she pushed the key into the slot, letting them inside the small ground floor.

"Here John, your room key back for the hotel." Avery extended her hand, the flat key card poised between her first two fingers as she held it straight to him.

"Oh I nearly forgot about that," John gratefully took it back while offering her the wig in return. "I guess you want this back."

"You're not going to be afraid to come inside if it's in the same room, are you?" She asked while taking it back from his hands.

John gave an awkward laugh. "It really did just throw me off is all."

"I'll stick to natural from now on; though that isn't to say I didn't have fun with the disguise while it lasted."

She led them up the narrow flights of stairs to the flat that they had already entered earlier that very same evening. The building was quiet, most others out for New Year's or those few who remained dormant throughout the night's events. Sherlock was clearing his Mind Palace of anything that could be insubstantial for the questioning he had planned for Avery. If asked the correct questions, he would be able to determine other things outside her verbal answers , specifically pertaining to facial movements and body language.

"That was a lot easier than going through the window." John said amicably as they arrived at her door.

"I hope you didn't muck up my floors." Was Avery's reply.

It was likely that the puddle of water that had formed from their shoes had long since dried up, though there could be a sizeable wet spot left in its wake. They followed her inside to the small studio, her hand reaching for the light immediately, showing them the same square area with the curtain still disturbed from its place. She pulled off her coat, placing it on the hook on the backside of the door, indicating to them that they could do the same.

"I'll change first. You two can get settled, watch crap telly or something." She waved idly with her hand while stepping out of her shoes. Her height decreased by a fair amount, though she still managed to be just a hair taller than John.

The scarf came next as she unwound it from her neck, exposing the neckline to her dress again that John's eyes couldn't help but float to. Something else caught Sherlock's focus, a section of her skin by her shoulder that was revealed when she shifted her arm, and covered again by the sleeve as she straightened back to position. He'd need an excuse to further investigate later. He made no comment as his scarf was returned to him, the two scents of cigarette smoke and her perfume now blending together in a mix he didn't find so noxious.

After grabbing a few spare garments from her wardrobe, she disappeared into the loo, leaving them in the heart of her living quarters with the quaint sound of street noise from the outside. "There's no watermark by the window." John said as he sat down on the bed, turning on the telly as Sherlock knew he would.

"She would not have been bothered if there had." He took a seat on the stiff couch, frowning at how unwelcoming it was to his backside when he was so accustomed to his own back in Baker Street. One needed a more forgiving seat when entering a Mind Palace, but he supposed he would have to make do.

The door in the small hallway opened a moment later, and Avery stepped back in to join them, wearing a powder white dressing gown, and something considerably shorter underneath since her feet and legs were both bare to the chill of the room. She quietly took the available seat next to John on her bed, quirking an eyebrow at his choice of program as she settled against the pillows.

"You decided on M*A*S*H?" She asked with a trace of amusement.

"Yeah, those two remind me of Sally and Anderson."

"Houlihan and Burns?" She confirmed as John pointed to the telly.

"It's a similar situation; cheating husband with a fiercely independent woman."

"I don't think I've ever even met Anderson."

That conversation went on for a while after that, and more other idle topics to follow as Sherlock drowned out their blithering. They might have called for his attention once or twice, and he was sure the odd look or two was thrown his way as he sat ramrod straight on the dull brown couch. He considered the case that he had left behind in London, which would surely be awaiting his return along with an irate Lestrade. With the state of how he had left things, he knew there would be no change in regards to the shooter, as evidence-less as the case was it would take time and his eyes. He expected word from Lestrade soon, seeing as the week after festivities was letting up, and all would be returning to the mundane cycle. Mycroft had cut contact as well, but he would re-emerge if a toe was put out of line in regards to Avery.

It came to him then, the point of origin where he could start his questioning. "When did my brother first come into contact with you?" He asked aloud, only to realise the flat was completely dark aside from the flashing glow from the telly. The sound from the box was low, and the dim light struck the faces of John and Avery, both of whom had managed to find sleep in his absence from the present. John's head had fallen onto Avery's shoulder, an occurrence that had happened after unconsciousness had come to them both, for Avery was too content in her sleep for the contact to have bothered her in the first place.

Sherlock stood from the couch, his back cracking from the fast movement, and he winced from the unexpected twinge. Bloody thing was too low to the ground, and rigid as tree bark. Getting over his discomfort, he crept around the front of the bed towards Avery's side, taking advantage of her comatose state. Something had caught his eye, and he was not quick to forget such a fact. She had gone to lengths to hide it since their acquaintanceship had started, making it all the more curious.

As deftly as he could manage, and that was quite alot, he reached forward with his right hand, fingers lightly pinching the terry cloth fabric of her dressing gown while tugging back at the collar until the left sleeve slipped down her shoulder. The satin nightie beneath had thin straps, leaving her shoulder bare to his sight, and the patch of flesh he had but glimpsed at before. Scars that had long since healed in time were faint pink on the smooth plane of white. Three to be exact, all curiously shaped, though nothing too rare that he had never seen the likes before. John had one similar; a gunshot wound. Avery was burdened by one and two more than that, two close together at the base of her shoulder, and the other further down and past the collar bone, above the left breast where it had come near to her heart. Was this where her belief of luck stemmed from so greatly?

His hand moved with the temptation to learn more by sense of touch, but he felt the rate of her heart pick up beneath his fingertips just before he could reach the scar. Her hand sprang like a cobra, and was locked around his wrist with her heather eyes hard through the fog of sleep that was still washing away from her mind. "I think you've made yourself too comfortable."

"The gown had shifted during sleep, I merely nudged it aside." He defended evasively while she gave him the use of his arm back. The leftover feeling of the prodding of her fingers on his wrist still lingered like an unwanted guest, and he consciously scrubbed at it with his other hand.

"And did you get a good enough look?" Her tone was accusing, a cow elephant waiting to charge if he stepped any closer into her territory. "Did you find what you were searching for?"

"Yes, three shots, clear to distinguish and not to be construed as anything else. And you think you are so ' _lucky_ ' to be alive."

"It's about as spiritual as I can get," She shifted quietly atop the bed covers, maneuvering a pillow over to her other side to catch John's head before his neck would snap unpleasantly with whiplash upon the sudden loss of her as a cushion. With that task done, she sat at the edge of the bed, the height too short for her long legs to be left to dangle without a floor to welcome her feet beneath. "Shall we move this conversation outside?"

He looked to the small window with the fire escape outside. "Without John?"

"I suspect your inquiries have little to do with him, instead them bringing you all the way across to the pond to Manhattan. Besides, everything you learn, you share with him," He might have flushed a bit at that mentioning. "No need to be bashful, there's nothing to step up and admit to."

"I will not be using all ten," The warning was abrupt, so much so that he ended up more shocked by it than her, though his recovery was swift. "Far better for me to use them sparingly should I need something from you later."

Her smile was small and willfully presented. "Just now, you reminded me of your brother."

"I'll try to avoid such pitfalls in the future." He replied with a sneer.

"Be sure that you do. One Mycroft is enough for the whole world."

She stood from the bed, slow and purposeful so as to not wake the slumbering doctor. They left him alone to the half volume of the telly, another old American program playing with the batty housewife running around after her husband, arms flailing in the air while her cantankerous spouse spouted out tactfully laid remarks of old-fashioned racism. Sherlock might have stopped to make cracks and judgements about it if he wasn't deep in the centre of his investigation of Avery. Crap telly was a good filter for boredom.

Avery brushed aside the curtain, straddling the window with one leg vaulted over to the platform while the other was still touched down on the laminated floors of her tiny flat. She disappeared from his sight as the rest of her person followed out to the small terrace. The drape billowed back and forth in the room, flicking like a hand at the wrist beckoning him forward, and he followed with no grievances.

The surface of her exposed skin pimpled with gooseflesh, and her bare feet hung off the side of the grated terrace, where she had seated herself in waiting for him. Her arms were folded together over the metal railing, and her head rested over them as she looked out across the alley to the side of the neighbouring building of the same brown brick. He took a seat down beside her, feeling very much like a child climbing into a treehouse for the first time.

"I'm curious what it is you think I know that will help you.' She mumbled softly, heavy eyes turning towards him slowly.

"Curious no, but afraid. My brother is no longer trying to stop you then."

"I haven't heard from him anymore." She said, neither agreeing nor contesting to what he asked.

"Not since his trip to Bristol," He thought about that for a moment before adding his conclusion. "Your family is there."

"I haven't been home in years . . . but yes, they are there," She sounded more remorseful than with an actual longing to see them. "For the record, if you keep making deductions, I'm going to start counting those as questions. Keeping things to yourself might not be such a bad thing. No need to reiterate all these truths that I already know about myself."

It seemed to him that she was asking the impossible. The point of his deductions usually was to garner a reaction, astonishment or otherwise. Nevertheless, talking aimlessly wasn't his reason for braving the cold without his coat. "When did my brother first come into contact with you?" He tried again with his mind still stuck on the same inquiry.

"Curious you'd start there, but I suppose I'm your best chance at leeway in that regard. There are two different incidences to this story. I first spoke with him several years ago in a rehabilitation clinic, but our real relationship started just over two years ago. He could recall my face if you can imagine."

Everything else had climaxed as a precursor to Moriarty's death, so it came as no surprise that Avery had entered into the game in the same timeframe. The rehabilitation clinic also added up to what he excused was Mycroft's time looking around for a place to stick him during his own addiction. What about Avery's face had made him commit her to memory?

More questions came to mind, but he did not make a move to ask anything else just yet. She sat far too calmly once again, looking straight out into nothing when he needed her eyes on him. His hands, jittery with misplaced agitation, went reaching into the inside of his jacket, stilling with salvation as he plucked out the small package of American cigarettes. It might have been audacious on his part to consider such a thing in her presence, as she looked at him with disbelief as he put the fag between his lips and struck at the lighter.

"That's a very courteous thing to do," She said in deep sarcasm. "Very courteous indeed, when you know I've only recently quit."

He exhaled slowly, blowing the smoke into her face while feeling a pressure of relief as he did. "Are you swayed by temptation so easily?"

"Maybe, but then I've at least tried to quit." She took the cigarette from him and stuck it between her lips, pulling a deep drag with eyes pinched shut. The smoke shot out from her mouth as she blew it into the crisp air, contemplation and aggression in her eyes. "I think you wanted me to fail."

Perhaps he did. Maybe that was where the initial relief had come from, and not from the taste of tar and nicotine. He accepted the fag back as she offered, stealing another drag for himself while missing the absence of her lipstick on the filter that had been there the last time. "It's after midnight, you can always try again with one of those resolutions that normal people constantly make and break."

"Maybe," She agreed hollowly. "I don't much care for the taste of American cigarettes anyway, so there wasn't much to miss on my part."

Agreeing with that proclamation, he stabbed out the last of the cigarette on the cold touch of the metal railing, before letting it fall into the large rubbish bins below. "Come back to London, if not for the case then for the cigarettes."

She laughed dryly, and shook her head before answering. "You only hear what you want to. I'm sorry I can't do that Sherlock, it's unsafe for me there."

He took a second to ponder ' _unsafe_ ' and all the meaning behind it before filing it away for later. "Because my brother has informed you of that being the case. I'm disappointed you don't think I could be of a certain benefit to whatever it is you must hide from. If you have a case in need of consulting, I am the only choice."

"I would never ask you to do that. And it's not a case, more like my complicated past that won't leave me alone. Your brother has put all of his efforts into seeing that I can no longer be harassed by the enemies I've created for myself, but it's never that simple."

"One's history rarely is," He countered impassively. "And it would be correct to say your surname is not Nash."

"Of course it isn't, and I'm glad you understand that, but there's nothing more I can say on the matter." Her eyes were trained on him, slate grey in the darkness of the alley, and almost see-through with apathy. A smile crept on to her face, as dim and forceful as the subway car ride they had rode in on, but she wasn't trying to convince him of anything in that moment.

Her hand disappeared into the pocket of her thick dressing gown, retracting with a thin strip of silken black, and he realised it was the tie she had left for them in their hotel room. John must have slipped it back to her sometime while he was away from them in his Mind Palace. He grew with tension as she shifted close, leaning forward but never touching him with anything but the material of the necktie. Too curious to move away or prevent her from what she was doing, he sat still while she made pragmatic motions to fasten the tie under his collar. It fit too loosely to be a noose and not tight enough to be presentable, but she left it halfway finished for him to complete. He almost wished she would complete the task of pushing the knot up the rest of the way to his neck, just because he detested half measures.

"Why?" Was the only word to leave his lips.

She rubbed a tired hand at her eyes, and returned to her point of origin on the grated platform where her feet were left free to dangle in the air, her toes turning blue and purple. "You still have eight questions left."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thoughts? I'll admit I wanted to start the questions rather ambiguously, and I think I achieved that. I did have fun with Avery's and Sherlock's interaction though, from the smoking to the necktie, and to his minor mishap of wasting a question at the end. A bit cheeky her answer too. Updates will be slower because of Uni, but I hope you guys appreciate the reading material I try to make to my best abilities, and more is to come yet with the questioning for Avery.
> 
> Next chapter: Part two of the night in her Studio Apartment. Will Sherlock get her to come back to London, and what else might they find out?


	18. I'm Not So Self Assured

The pause was bridged by a comfortable silence, one she took the time to reflect over her first answer while Sherlock thought about what else he could be asking her most likely. She had already cheated him out of one question, even when it had nothing to do with his current case or her past. She was fearful for what he could expose with the right pressure, all of his weight now on the ice of her surface, waiting persistently until it would crack and crumble to pieces. She felt like a hazardous substance, and if he opened up too many facets of her past, he would be flooded with something bio hazardous. Mycroft must have thought her a lost cause, because he had not given any more time to her for either warnings or plain conversations. Perhaps he wouldn't care either way if she returned to London. Then again, there was a greater chance that he had put her on the 'no fly list'.

"Alright, I'm stepping back inside before I catch death. My feet are numb." She spoke aloud while pushing up on the rail, sick of her own thoughts and needing escape, even if the sanctuary she sought was her tiny studio two steps away. She couldn't be sure if Sherlock would follow or if he was even listening, though she was clued into his consciousness when her frozen feet failed beneath her weight and she stumbled around the small area of the fire escape.

"A pins and needles feeling?" He asked as he supported her with a hand on her waist.

Her mind was as frozen as her feet, because it took her a moment to realise what matter he was addressing. "Like you wouldn't believe. Maybe my veins don't have ice in them like so many people have said before."

"John finds you quite endearing, so there's that."

"Yeah, but he lives with you." She stepped away from the guide of his hand, lifting the window back up to crawl inside. She didn't look back, but she could imagine Sherlock had pulled quite a look over her comment, and she didn't bother stopping a smile. They seemed more frequent when either he or John were around.

The heart of her American apartment was still quiet, and John was still being bathed in the light of the telly while repeats of 'All in the Family' played over the screen. From splitting her time between London and New York, she had come to familiarise herself with more than a few of the programs. She wondered if it would be better to disturb the doctor from his sleep, though guilt arose at the idea of taking the cushion from him that she had substituted in her place. The window snapped shut behind her, and Sherlock returned to his seat on the couch, however looking displeased about it. Wanting to keep the silence, she fully muted the telly while hitting the switch on the tableside lamp by her bed, taking careful actions to not disrupt John.

"Do you want him awake now or not?"

Sherlock didn't immediately answer, though he did go into his pocket to fetch something, pulling out a set of keys a moment later that he proceeded to throw onto the wooden surface of her bedside table. There was a horrible clatter, and John jolted awake on the bed, shaking the very foundation with his abrupt movement until the headboard knocked back against the wall. The one side of his face had an indentation from lying on his side, and his eyes were puffy from the sudden motion of snapping apart. "Good, you're awake now, we can proceed." Sherlock stated unflinchingly.

"What—?" John's voice was groggy and filled with gravel as he replied nonplussed.

"You were still sleeping, so we talked for a while." Avery said, filling him in much more gently.

He sat up quickly, legs kicking out before him like a frightened child, his startled eyes wider than an owl's. "You talked without me?!" He cried in betrayal. "Why would you do that?"

"A brief conversation, one Avery assured I would fill you in on," Sherlock muttered with an odd look thrown her way. "Her family is in Bristol; that was my brother's business."

"Oh," John groaned while scrubbing a hand down his face. "Is that all?"

"I explained my first encounter with Mycroft as well, so we can take it from there," She looked back to Sherlock, awaiting his move with patience. "Or did you have something else in mind?"

"I need you back in London to help with the case."

She scowled at him, wondering if he was just being childish or if there was a point to his blunt refusal to accept her reason for being in New York. "Why do you think I can help?" She inquired, for the moment hypothetically entertaining the idea despite the complications involved.

"Several reasons. Your connection to Moriarty's past being of the most immediate importance."

"And you don't think there are others out there that would hire an assassin just the same as him? So the serial killer was shot dead, you could be reaching."

"Unlikely," He countered. "Your injuries are the results of a distant shooter, a professional hit."

"You were shot?" John interjected, still playing catch up.

"Yes, it was some time ago, unsuccessful obviously." She carefully revealed the scars to John, numb and hollow as he inspected closely with his medical eyes.

"If the hit was incomplete, then it is prudent to expect there's still a price out for your head. The matter of London being unsafe for you then. You do believe me in my theory that a piece of Moriarty has been allowed to linger, but my brother is keeping you out of the affair."

Sitting there in the low lighting of her apartment, she realised again how much he was able to see, even when the door of information was but a breath away from shutting. Solitary confinement would cause him madness; he needed the stimuli of people. "It's not entirely impossible to consider."

"How can he be alive, he had his lips wrapped around a revolver last I checked," John chimed in with doubt, and fear that he tried to remain hidden. "If he really is doing this, then Lestrade and Scotland Yard need to be warned."

Avery's heart palpitated beneath her breast. "No shooter was found?"

"As of yet, no," Sherlock answered for her. "Which is why I need you."

She was reluctant to answer, thankfully saved for a moment by John, who was on alert and involved in the discussion now. "Hang on, I thought you had dismantled all of his network? You know, what you spent the better part of two years doing?"

Sherlock appeared, in what Avery thought, sheepish, if his straight ahead look and the burning pink tips of his ears were any indication. "I returned by Mycroft's word of it being safe. This organization goes deep, and he must have missed something. Oh but he would never admit to making a mistake on such a colossal scale. And this overlooked piece from the Empire is a threat to Avery, so he keeps her here for silence."

"Excuse me, I'm still here," Avery said, trying to keep the ice out of her words. "I'm not here because of your brother's pride Sherlock. I earned my right not to be in harm's way anymore."

"Oh but that is trifle," He scoffed with an unappealing sneer on his face. "What is distance but another delay? Limitless resources will have them catching up to you eventually, why not remain in London? It would be better for you, convenient for me, and easier for them."

"You make such a convincing case," She retorted sarcastically. "Are you going to spend another question on me or can I retire?"

Sherlock didn't answer, looking lost in his thoughts once again, leaving her in John's company. He looked to have questions of his own, struggling with them in silence. If she had to guess, she suspected his would be of a more personal nature than Sherlock's pragmatic ones. He looked her in the eye, pausing for a moment before all became clear and his found bravery along with it. "How did you know Moriarty? Did you work for him?"

He realised his slip of shoehorning in two questions, but she would give him a pass just that one time. "I'll count that as one since it's the same answer. I wouldn't say I worked for him, but I came into the fold of his network by association with others. It was actually awhile until I was first introduced to him, but by then I had already felt the distinct impression of his . . . objection of me."

John nodded solemnly, accepting the truth for what it was. "I have so many other questions, but I'm afraid to ask more. Sherlock probably will know more about this already than I ever could."

"Probably." She agreed with a sidelong glance at the detective.

"He's right though," John piped up. "About London, you should come back."

"If it was so simple I would, no hesitating. There are other matters, outside of my safety, that also complicates things."

"Oh, it has something to do with your family in Bristol." John declared brightly.

"John Watson, you just made a deduction," She appraised him with approval. "And yes, the matter of my family is a contributing factor to my resistance of returning to London."

"But Mycroft keeps them safe right? That's his business with them."

"In layman's terms yes," She supplied cryptically. "It's been a long time since I've seen them."

"Can I ask why without it counting as a question?"

She shrugged with a small smile. John was simply being curious because he wanted to know her better, and she found it difficult to refuse him, lacking in friends as she was. "Okay. This doesn't exactly pertain to the case of the dead serial killer anyway. Speaking of which, did you make a blog about it?"

"I haven't posted it yet, but I'm going to title it ' _The Shepard of Slaughter'_. His surname was Shepard; I thought it felt fitting."

"That's clever." She agreed with a little chuckle that managed to melt away the rest of the cold that had been brought in with her from the excursion out on the fire escape.

"Glad you like it. I face endless ridicule from Sherlock every time with my titles and my apparent romanticised re-telling's." Having perused John's blog many times in the past, she had felt a sense of that so called romanticising that Sherlock held the same opinion for, but she thought it made the stories more rewarding for the audience. Knowing John now like she did, she knew he was only guilty of putting forth his most honest emotions of what he felt for his adventures with Sherlock, and that was not such a bad thing. "So, the matter of being estranged from your family; you were saying?"

"Oh right," A part of her had hoped he would have forgotten that, but it seemed he was just as eager to know her as Sherlock was to collect her. "I am voluntarily separated from my family at the present time and for the foreseeable future because it is safer for them."

"But don't they ever try to get into contact with you, or is that what Mycroft has been doing?"

"No, they have never reached out to me," She cleared her throat, averting her eyes before speaking the next bit. "They have no reason to because . . . they think I'm dead."

John sat frozen for a long time after that with an off-putting blank expression on his face, which had her wondering if he hadn't heard her at all. A transformation then began to start on his face, like foaming ocean water that was brought in at the changing of the tide. His brows ascended along his forehead and the skin around his eyes formed new wrinkles as they widened with shock. "I'm sorry, could you say that again? It might have been my imagination or I had fluff in my ears, but I thought you said ' _they think I'm dead'_."

Having the decency to look ashamed, her shoulders bunched together tightly with tension while she eased some distance between them on her bed. "It's the culpable truth John. I haven't spoken to my parents or siblings in just over two years."

"At the same time?!" He exploded before he could help himself. The timespan was an unfortunate similarity that she shared with Sherlock's apparent suicide off of St. Bart's.

"John, you'll wake the neighbours behaving like that." Sherlock's voice made a sudden interruption in their conversation, and Avery was glad for it.

"Oh, you're going to listen now?" John asked hotly. "Do you have anything to add about what she just told me?"

"It's not piss-poor judgement to try and save others from your mistakes." Avery argued back, feeling like she had to defend herself.

"No, but you two don't understand the consequences of your actions; what you leave your friends and family with when we get left behind."

"I'll know I would have left them alive, and that's a small comfort to help me sleep a bit better at night. Have you ever had to make the hard decision John?" That alone got him to clam-up, though Avery felt it was no success to celebrate; a small victory in an otherwise nasty business. "I didn't think so. It's a thankless act, and I hope you'll never have to."

His head was hung low, humbled like a servant brought down by his master. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be," She waved her hand in dismissal. "Judgement calls are hard to avoid where I'm concerned."

"You and Sherlock both." John corrected with a look shot to his friend. Sherlock's mouth made the only indication that he had heard, when the corners turned down into a slight pout. "But what does Mycroft do for you by meeting with them?"

"Well, as it's only been two years, he hasn't had to make very many trips out to Bristol. They are under the impression that I died for a . . . heroic cause, for Queen and Country as they say. In honour of that, they host a dinner once every year and Mycroft is a respected guest. He was the one to deliver the false news after all."

"That doesn't surprise me." John said with something of contempt.

"No, but he does make certain that there hasn't been any word of me not being six feet under. A tightly woven ruse and it has to stay that way." She shrugged helplessly, not knowing what else to say.

"I think I understand," John said, though he made no hint that he was accepting of the choice. "We should sleep, our flight is early in the afternoon and we'll have to fight for a cab to get to JFK."

"Try to avoid the Van Wyck if you can." She advised heartedly.

She crawled under the first layer of her bedclothes while John, ever the gentleman, remained above the quilt. She leaned forward on her elbow to get to the lamp, noticing Sherlock one last time as he sat unperturbed on the couch. He went through the motions of stretching out himself, though she doubted if he would actually try for any real amount of sleep. Her head hit the pillow in a soft puff, and she sighed with all the day's exhaustions being expelled from her body. It wasn't long before she was asleep, waiting for morning that would no doubt be accompanied with another one of Sherlock's attempts to convince her to return to London. If only…

* * *

" _Sherlock, we still have to get back to the hotel and pack. Give up, it's useless now."_

" _Give up? Oh the ignorance, if you actually think I have any capacity for defeat."_

" _Shhh! You'll wake her up."_

" _Good, we're in a hurry and she isn't in the proper condition to travel."_

" _That's not even possible, she'll say no again. She doesn't have much of a choice does she? I mean you heard her story."_

" _And who better to assist in her case . . . are you seeing my side now?"_

" _In those two seconds that past, no, I'm still on the side of rationality."_

Avery fought back a groan as she listened to the bickering going on between blogger and detective. It was an interesting thing to be woken to for sure. She just considered herself lucky she no longer suffered from hangovers, especially the morning after New Year's, or she might have thrown both of them out to the pavement. Sobriety was bliss.

John's weight was no longer beside her, but she felt the mattress dip with new weight on the side adjacent to her and the shadow of a figure looming over her side. "Get that hand out of my face." She moaned.

"Sherlock, you woke her up." John scolded.

Sherlock's voice was close from being the one to invade in her space with his whole person. "She had already awoken a minute earlier. There was a shift in her breathing, a pick-up of pace."

"Of course there was." John mumbled under his breath.

"I'm not going with you—hey!" She exclaimed when she suddenly found herself being hoisted into an upright position by her shoulders. She swatted at him with a derisive look, all parts of the rude wake-up call accounting for her sour mood.

"Get dressed and walk us to a cab at least. It would be the courteous thing to do."

His airy tone had her suspicious, and John as well because he tossed her a bemused look. "The courteous thing to do? Since when have you ever taken that into account?"

"Just now." He answered flippantly.

Avery huffed, but was compelled to follow through with the bizarre request. She expected Sherlock to have one more trick up his sleeve, and the anticipation was killing her. She grabbed a practical outfit; one pair of khaki coloured trousers and a soft cashmere jumper. The door to the loo barely shut before she heard John's voice nattering at Sherlock, picking at him like a chicken and no doubt with his little arms flapping like wings. She was almost tempted to press her ear up to the door, but she focused on shrugging on her clothing before backing out into the tight hallway. Not once had she heard Sherlock make a peep, a cause for concern no doubt.

She spotted John first, perched on the end of her bed with his head hanging low in what looked like guilt. The effort of his forced smile was wasted on her, and she scrutinized him carefully while out of the corner of her eye she noticed Sherlock standing by pensively, his coat and scarf already in order.

"I'm supposed to ask you one more time if you'll come with us." John said in a guilt-ridden way.

"And you know I will refuse."

"I know." John's voice made a strange squeak that had her heart thumping with worry. "I'm so sorry Avery."

"What—?" She didn't get to finish her thought before she felt something cold slide around her wrist. There was jingle of metal, and a  _click_  resonated in the room as she was too slow to notice Sherlock had sidled up beside her to slip the end of a handcuff on to her wrist, the other end of the pair already fastened to himself. "What, are you kidding me?"

"Afraid not," He answered with a curt tug on the cuff. "John, be a gentleman and pack her a bag. Only things of vital importance, we're running low on time."

"This is your plan?" Avery interrupted, ignoring for the moment that John had reached the drawer of her unmentionables and was blushing furiously. "You're just going to waltz through JFK with me strapped to your arm. You won't be able to get a last minute ticket to London, today of all days."

"I already purchased the ticket before we left London. In cash of course, as I suspect my brother watches my transactions."

"No, I'm not going with you. Give me the key." She gave a harsh tug back, though he appeared unaffected by her complaining.

"The key is back with my things in the Mansfield." He explained calmly.

"Well it's going to be a bit of a problem going through customs like this." She held up her arm with the cuff, wanting to choke him with his scarf as he developed a smug look on his face.

"Warming up to the idea already?"

She stumbled for words, helpless like a child first learning to speak. "John, a little help please?"

He set her bag down before her, everything that he could find already packed in a hastily but orderly fashion. "I think we need you too Avery. Besides, there's no convincing him when he's gone to such lengths. I only just found out about the plan while you were changing."

"That's settled," Sherlock announced as he started for the door, dragging her along with him. "We'll fetch our things and be back in London before Lestrade can grouse over my absence."

"I need shoes first," Avery pointed out, to which John was kind enough to place a pair before her to step into. "And now I can't even wear a coat because of the cuff."

"Then I suggest you stay close and keep up. I estimate you'll be in full agreement with this idea before we even reach the expressway, so the cuffs will no longer be necessary."

"But they're necessary now?" She remarked waspishly.

"You're a flight risk at best, and overly emotional, but I excuse that because you are a woman."

She felt a snarl coming on as John hurried out with her bag behind them. "Maybe you should have cuffed her to me."

"No, she would have manipulated you into setting her free."

They managed the rest of the way out of her building with little talk and many thoughts that buzzed silently around them. It was awkward being led by Sherlock's long stride, though she managed to keep up quite well considering. He stiffened each time her hand brushed against the tips of his gloved fingers, and so she sought small victory as she clasped her hand around his, refusing to let go when she felt him try to shake her off. He opened his mouth to say something, but her black look had him reconsidering as she swiftly told him to  _'Deal with it.'_

"At least the cabs are running well today." John commented in effort to diffuse the tension. It was to no avail, and he took it upon himself to load her bag in the boot of the cab while she shuffled in with Sherlock. The cabbie gave them an amused look as he took attention of their hand holding. That ended quickly as Sherlock curtly gave out the address to the Mansfield. John closed the door behind him and they were off into the traffic of dawn. "I brought your phone Avery, if you want it."

"Yes please." She held out her free hand to John as he placed the mobile into her palm. Apparently she had two missed messages; both from the same person she thought had been avoiding her the whole week.

_**A Happy New Year to you Ms. Nash.—MH** _

Simple and impersonal, as she expected, but the second one had her twisting with worry.

_**Make my brother understand Avery, using as little of the truth as you can manage. Do not come back to London, it isn't safe.—MH** _

"Oh God." She whispered quietly to herself, her hand tightening on Sherlock's without her realising, and she missed the curious look he was giving her. There was nothing Mycroft could do, unaware as he was back in London. She was going to have to confront her past, something she knew was unavoidable, but being more prepared was how she had always imagined she would come to face her devils. There was no more time for her.

" _What do I do now?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Avery is coming back whether she wants to or not, but does Sherlock really know what he is dragging her back to? A little more look into her connection with her family, and how she pulled a death stunt (more about that later) Glad I could get this out as quick as I could, Uni is killing me slowly.
> 
> Next chapter: New insight about the shooting is made aware to Sherlock, and the three arrive back in London where chaos will slowly ensue.


	19. The Empty Room

John didn't think it would happen, but eventually Avery did come around to the idea of returning to London, though he suspected it was somewhat reluctantly when no other options were making themselves known to her. It was somewhere between leaving the Mansfield and JFK that Sherlock finally liberated her from the cuffs, halfway on the expressway like he had said. The talons were out just as soon as she was freed, tugging one hand on his scarf and the other in his hair until John had separated them with some coercing words and physical intervention—not to mention the odd looks from the cabbie. He considered his friend lucky he hadn't been thrown from the cab, because he was certain the next move would have been Avery's knee in the middle of his back, kicking him into heavy traffic on the Van Wyck (they had not been able to avoid it).

Their arrival to the airport had been stalled because of that little detour, but they raced through the regulation process, still having enough time to take their seats on the aeroplane while the airline set to work on de-icing the wings. Not wanting to deal with Sherlock's mannerisms for another flight, he had Avery take the middle seat while he occupied the window, leaving Sherlock in the aisle where he could make his deductions to the rest of the passengers. He was constantly moving in his seat, though John was more amused this time around because he got to witness Avery's reaction to Sherlock traveling in such a confined compartment.

"How much longer before this plane takes off?" Avery whispered aside harshly to him, not in the best of moods since the day had started. She had received something on her phone in the cab, John was almost positive of that, but he didn't have the audacity to ask anything more of her, guilt-ridden enough for uprooting her from the supposed sanctuary New York had provided. If he was being honest, he had not been able to pack her suitcase in the most orderly fashion either, and it would be another thing for her to stress over later.

"Probably soon," He replied while not having the reliable evidence to attest to that. He rubbed at his cheek and took another look outside the oval shaped window by his side before glancing back at Sherlock who had his head buried in his phone. "Sherlock, they're going to tell you to power down soon."

"It's a shame too; we almost made it back without him noticing John." Sherlock said without gazing up.

"Without who noticing? Lestrade?" He asked with dread.

"Hmm," Sherlock answered with a noise that hooked Avery's attention also. "He had some choice words to say before going on to talk about the four arrests Scotland Yard made an hour ago in connection to the shooting."

"Four shooters?"

Avery frowned in response to that. "A mistake?"

"An obvious one, even for them. None of those men are the sniper we are looking for."

"Wait, how can you make that call?" John felt puzzled that a short text from Lestrade would have relayed that much information.

"You think they were successful without heavy evidence or my intervention?" Sherlock shot him a disbelieving look, words coloured in insult for what was being said.

"When you say it like that, I guess not," John retorted slowly as he walked his fingers up the armrest of his seat. "What did Greg think?"

There was a pause where he figured Sherlock was boggled about who the devil this 'Greg' was, before he continued speaking. "It was a welcomed surprise, as he believes the four men are clues themselves. Unfortunately he won't share more until I'm actually present in his company. I don't see any difference on the distance, but I'll have to tolerate his little foibles until we've returned to London. We'll head straight to the Yard from Heathrow."

"But it will be late evening." John protested, not liking the idea of walking his sore feet and jet-lagged idled brain around the city to continue with their case so soon.

"Exactly, we'll have nothing else going on." Sherlock said, leaving no room for debate.

John sighed, once again looking out the window as the crew continued to work on de-icing the wings. They may have been going back home to London with Avery in their company, but nothing had gotten any easier. In fact, his life felt more complicated now than ever.

* * *

Mycroft was seated in the back of a car, being driven around the city while he lolled in the heat that slackened his tense muscles. He enjoyed a good automobile ride, so long as the temperature was set to his liking in accordance to the weather outside, and that the seat was adjusted to the proper angle for his back, leaving enough space for his legs. Anthea sat across from him, digits tapping away on her phone faster than a hummingbird could beat its wings. Silence was a common thing between them, mutually accepted as when he was otherwise occupied with other business matters.

Currently his thoughts were centred on Avery. She had not replied back to his messages, and while he was able to determine the time difference between London and New York in his head, whether or not she remained unable or unwillingly was unclear. His brother and Doctor Watson would be well on their way back by now, and he was impatient to hear what information she had dispatched to Sherlock to placate him. Rigid in his liberality, he would accept nothing less than the bare minimum as her answer. Perhaps she would see that as unfair, but he was feeling a tad unconventional, bereft of his usual sangfroid demeanor. A result of Bristol no doubt, it always left him in a more inhospitable mood after departing.

"Sir, your mobile." Anthea caught his attention by bringing notice to his phone going off in his hand. He thanked her in quiet acknowledgement, a sign for dismissal as she returned to her own device.

"Ms. Nash, you're late on the return." He answered stoically.

" _I know, but this was my first chance at convenience. I've had a bit of a rushed morning."_

"I have no doubt of your incapacitation. What damage has my brother done this time?"

" _He hasn't asked anything too harmful, though I only delayed the process by granting him the choice of when he can ask something from me."_

"You can avoid him Ms. Nash. Sherlock is persistent, but the distance put between you will inevitably deter him."

" _Yes, but he was also determined to see me back to London with himself and John."_

That sounded well enough like something Sherlock would do. "I trust you were able to circumvent."

The muffled pause and white noise that spanned across the connection more than confirmed what he had been dreading.  _"I'm on a plane right now, back to London. I'm more like a prisoner mind you; he cuffed me right in my studio."_

"That is regrettable," He had hoped for more of a struggle from her, and less of a fight from his brother, both unrealistic aspirations. "You're away from them for the moment?"

" _In the cramped space of the loo, waiting for take-off. I thought I'd give you fair warning about my return. Something will have to be done about my studio back in New York, and I do worry about your heart you know."_

Usually with a comment like that he was accustomed to a jape about his liking to cake being tossed around with it. A refreshing change of pace that was. "Kind of you, but rest assured I am in well condition."

" _Of course, you just got back from Bristol a few days ago,"_  He did not like the jest in her tone or the small smirk that he would have found on the other side of the conversation.  _"Can I inquire about my family?"_

"If you must."

" _I'm sorry I must insist."_

He could forgive her sentiment. As commonplace as it was, he'd run himself exhausted for being disappointed every time he came into contact with another who was as weak as to have such frivolity. "Your brother's injury has healed nicely, and he made no indication of returning for another tour, something that pleased your mother."

" _I'm glad. Mum always worried for Aaron since he was drafted,"_  She did as well; Mycroft could hear the relief in her tone.  _"And how is Elaine?"_

"Your sister remains optimistic that she and her husband will make the attempt to become parents soon."

Avery made a disbelieving noise that she was not so discreet to cover.  _"And what did Peter have to say on the matter?"_

"He was prattling on about his promotion. I couldn't be tempted to listen, so I'm sorry to inform I cannot fill you in on all the details on his account," He droned, nothing short of unrepentant. "It does not appear you will miss becoming an aunt anytime soon, rest assured."

" _Then I am assured,"_ She breathed heavy with a sigh.  _"I should be going, the plane will be taking off soon and no doubt your brother's been threatened to leave already by the pilot and the crew."_

Her quick escape was expected, but he would not let her go so easily without addressing the other matter she was fast on leaving. "Ms. Nash, would you like to inquire about your father?"

A great pause hung between them, one that Mycroft felt was further than the physical distance between London and New York. _"Has anything changed in his regard?"_

"No."

" _Then there's nothing to discuss,"_  Her curt tone caused him to withhold any argument he may have had over the subject. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.  _"Goodbye Mycroft."_

"Until you are back in London Ms. Nash. I will settle your affairs in America, and your flat will be waiting for you here when you arrive."

She uttered her gratitude before the line fell silent. He was swiftly brought back to the setting of the car, pulling at the collar of his shirt as the heat was now more unbearable through the layers of his jacket and waistcoat. Anthea gave him a questioning look without the concern, and she kept from speaking as the car stopped at their destination. He was thankful for that, wanting out of the heat now that it had managed to swelter and cause him to feel soiled in the starches of his fine attire.

His mobile was quickly slipped back inside his pocket, and he stepped out onto wet pavement, offering another curse to Bristol in his mind. Something needed to come of his foul mood before all was said and done, or else he felt he would have squandered an opportunity to be resourceful with this blasted sentimentality that had crept up upon him.

* * *

Though he wasn't one to lament something as silly as home, he did feel a certain wave of nostalgia wash over him as the tires of the aeroplane screeched down on the tarmac of Heathrow. The flight had been long once again, but not as dull with their third companion thrown into the equation. She may have still been harbouring her detesting of him in silence (total hogwash in his opinion), but Avery did manage to share a conversation or two his way, and Sherlock appreciated that greatly without going the lengths to tell her as such.

By his estimation, the lengthy period she had spent away from her seat before take-off had been put to use to make a phone call out to his brother. For reasons beyond his comprehension, she seemed to hold Mycroft's opinion of her in high-esteem, and he could only wonder what the circumstances for that could be. The whole thing was completely heinous, but then he never did hold much stock in his brother's views.

"Are we just going to tote our effects around with us to Scotland Yard?" John asked as they walked through the terminal with bags in hand. Avery was still rubbing at her wrist where the cuff had worn a mark into the pale of her skin, like an ink stain on fresh parchment. He had one to match, but it was of little grievance if the outcome of the case unraveled in his favour. He was already ninety-nine percent of the way there, and Avery was the small one percent that would help verify the rest of his theory. John would argue that she was worth more, but until she spoke, her value was insubstantial to him.

"Nonsense John. The cabbie can take our belongings back to Baker Street."

"And do what with them? Leave them on the doorstep for Mrs. Hudson to drag up a flight of stairs? She's our landlady, not our housekeeper."

"Honestly John, she's an old woman, of course she won't be doing that all herself," He was again surprised by his Doctor's tendency to stray towards concrete thought and not of an abstract nature. "Garon is there, he can very well help her with the majority of it."

"Oh no, you've relied on him enough as it is. He's going to move out next. If making him a private investigator wasn't enough, it will be another thing to do it." John made a going-away motion with his hands to describe what he felt would be their neighbour's departure. Avery was eyeing them suspiciously, making him want to drop the conversation just as soon as possible. Better for her not to find out now about the fact that he'd paid Garon to have her followed, should she grow sensitive and choose to go back on her word of lending her knowledge for the case. It was a critical time, not to be lead astray over another's personal need for boundaries.

"I think that is enough of that conversation for now John." He spoke heatedly, getting his point across with a frown not to be taken lightly.

"Right, sorry." He said, catching on with a subtle look in Avery's direction.

The sky was already an onyx black as they stepped outside from the airport. Crisp and stark, he breathed in the air that was London, the poisonous scent of cigarettes and car exhaust making him come alive as he climbed into the next available cab with his companions.

"Lestrade's going to be upset when he sees us." John said as an afterthought as they settled in for the long drive back.

"Maybe you should have brought him back a souvenir." Avery suggested smartly.

"It took nearly to the end of the week for him to take notice we were away, he shouldn't complain, he should be begging for my assistance."

He could feel the doubtful looks shared between his flatmate and Avery. "I rather doubt that is going to happen, so I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. And it was the holidays; I think he has a new bird he's been seeing."

"Hmm yes, her attempt to apply for a position with the Yard was unsuccessful, but his choice of wining and dining her out of guilt should more than make up for that."

"Umm?" Avery asked aloud to John.

"Just go with it," He dismissed. "Speaking of wining and dining . . . we didn't rob you of anything special for New Year's did we?"

Avery's laugh was dry with just the barest hint of anger. "No, and you can stop trying to inquire into my dating life. Some thing's I deserve to keep private, and who I choose to spend my time with or not, is one of those things."

John muttered a rather pathetic apology that seemed to ghost right over Avery, and Sherlock was again reminded of something that wasn't on her person. Chain and dog tags. If John had not come across them while packing, where could she have left them? He decided that the name inscribed on the tags was something worth a second look. Something worth knowing, an identity that he was dying to uncover.

He watched the cold of the night float by, his mouth carved into a straight line as he waited in times flow to take him to the Yard. The cab felt to be going slower, but then he was impatient and bored, drumming up thoughts that filled and were filed away into his Mind Palace. Most contained a considerable amount of Avery, but he didn't understand why. A room with four beige walls, a curtain-less window, and an unoccupied chair were constructed from nothing. He stepped inside the place where it seemed no door had been created, looking out to the colourless world that stood still. It looked like a neighbourhood in London, though not one he had ever known or walked through, and it remained without an identity. He turned and stepped away from the window, flinching awfully as Avery now sat in the chair, head tilted in a way that a woman would use to communicate a many number of things.

" _You're keeping me here now?"_ She asked in a dispassionate voice.

" _I suppose I am."_ He replied, his voice appearing foggy like an English morning.

She smiled, her visage as vague as the room.  _"Am I your prisoner?"_

" _For my keeping, yes."_

…"Sherlock?"

It paralysed him to learn that the conversation was something he had conjured, and that the Avery calling him now—the real Avery—was as secretive as she wanted to remain.

"Hmm?" He answered without words, and her reply was to point at the Yard, to where they were now parked outside. "A breathtaking sight on a night like this."

"Yes, I expect it is for you," She remarked in understanding. "But what am I to do now? I need to take what things I have back to my flat."

"You could stay at Baker Street, just for tonight." John offered before Sherlock could take the time to reject the idea entirely.

"Another night with you two; wouldn't I be imposing?"

"Nonsense, we more than imposed on you in New York. It's the least we could do at this point, right Sherlock?"

"Only if you can put up with . . . Lucy," He said, seeming to forget at once his original thought. "I recall a feline allergy you suffer from."

"I thought she was a gift for your landlady?"

"Oh, this conversation is tedious." Sherlock said while throwing the door open, leaving John to sort through their affairs with the cabbie as he strode towards the entrance to the place that welcomed him with artificial heat and lighting. Heads rose at the sight of him, disbelieving and terrified of his return perhaps. Donavan spotted him first, her physical response apparent like a chemical reaction as she immediately turned sour to his proximity. She raised a dark hand and pointed down the corridor, knowing without asking that he was searching for Lestrade.

"Welcome back freak." She called, right as he turned the corner.  _Oh sweet London, right how I left you._

Lestrade's eyes were as dark as a cast-iron kettle pot as he looked to his arrival. He was standing over a table of evidence, plastic bags and manila files scattered in disarray, everything Sherlock wanted to get his hands on. Lestrade was like a statue, standing before it in guarding with his arms crossed, so long so that Sherlock thought he might have become stuck that way.

"Oh welcome back, did you have a pleasant holiday?"

"It wasn't a holiday. I was completing a task that I believe will serve to better my understanding . . ." He noticed the dry look being shot his way, halting his explanation. "That was sarcasm."

The sigh came without saying. "Sherlock, I sometimes wonder why I put up with you. It would be so much easier to just do my job without your intervention."

"Why Lestrade, I didn't realise you were looking for a game of blind man's bluff."

"That is completely rude!" Lestrade exclaimed, just before John and Avery entered the room behind him. He looked more puzzled by her appearance than anything, dressed all in white without a coat in the middle of winter. "Ms. Nash, lovely to see you again." He said in a see-through lie.

"Believe me, I was dragged here." She explained.

"All the way from New York?" Lestrade then paused, coming to his senses as he gave a shake of his head. "Wait, I believe you."

"Well Craig—"

"—Greg!"

"What do you have for me?"

Lestrade's aggravation seemed to grow each passing minute, dwarfing the room with palpable anger. "We're holding the four suspects in custody, and I use the term 'suspects' loosely. We've pulled a falsified identification off of each of them, all four claiming to be one Sebastian Moran."

"That's a lie." Avery said in a hard tone, her face painted in a black look.

"I agree with you," Lestrade said as he stepped towards the table, indicating they should follow suit. "But Sebastian Moran is a ghost; we couldn't find anything on him no matter how far we dug. Whatever public record had once existed on him is now long gone, and I'm not holding my breath on waiting for the one that brings it to light. We suspect he paid these four other fine gentlemen in holding as well, because we pulled a curious item off of each of them."

"What are the items?" Sherlock asked, taking his place across from Lestrade.

"A police badge, an umbrella, a camera, and a walking stick. I think it's a message meant for you Sherlock."

Lestrade passed the items over across the table, each one protected in a plastic evidence bag to accommodate for the size of the object it contained. Sherlock felt his face mold into a stern expression as he touched each clue through the protective layer, his gloved hands trembling as he did. "Did you manage to pull any prints off of these?"

"Only those that belonged to the nameless suspects," Lestrade answered as he stroked his thumb over his lips. "What does this all mean Sherlock? You've got that look in your eyes; comprehension."

"He's named his next targets," And much more concerning than the paid serial killer shot down in the streets. "You Lestrade, Garon, my brother, and John."

Lestrade made a sound like a bear, tired and ready to crawl into his cave for hibernation. "That's what we suspected. I already informed Garon, but we haven't been able to get into contact with your brother, and he needs to be warned."

"Mycroft is a target because of my work," Sherlock muttered in contemplation before smirking despite himself. "That should please him."

"Wait," John interjected. "I'm the cane..?"

"Yes, it's quite clever really. He's chosen to target important figures in my network rather than out of sentiment." He said with something akin to enthusiasm before he was sobered by haunting words from his past.

" _I'll burn the heart out of you."_

He spun on his heels, swiveling to a stop at Avery who had grown demure. "I need to speak with you."

She was unsurprised by this, nodding in understanding. "Alright."

He signaled for John to wait with Lestrade, both looking peeved, before walking across with her to the other side of the room. "You know Sebastian Moran."

"Yes." Her voice didn't waver, but Sherlock didn't miss the hollow action of her hand rubbing at her shoulder where he knew the scars to be.

"He was employed by Moriarty, yet this is the first time I have heard his name in the passing."

By now Avery was as pale as her jumper, and it looked an effort to speak through her even paler lips. "You're already halfway there, but I believe you are right Sherlock, I can help you."

"I need you to tell me everything, leaving out no small detail if it can be helped." His hands were at her shoulders, one of their bodies holding steady, but beneath his hands he could not differentiate between who was wracked with quivers and who was the pillar of strength. Avery looked so cold, never having the time in the rush of things to procure a coat. It was then that he realised he still wore the black necktie also.

"Sherlock—"

She didn't continue as the door to the room opened abruptly, Donavan giving her presence to where it was unneeded and undesired. As per usual, her face was pinched into a sour expression, but she only looked to Lestrade, exasperated with defeat. "I'm sorry sir, I tried to stop him, but he insisted."

Lestrade's face melted into a troubled frown. "Who are you talking about Donavan?"

She looked over her shoulder before stepping into the door and out of the way of the emerging figure, dressed in all black and utterly depressing to behold as he came. "Oh no." John proclaimed.

"I'm afraid so Doctor Watson," Mycroft spoke before his eyes shot to Sherlock and Avery. "Now Ms. Nash, please come with me and don't say another word more to my brother. He does not understand what all of his probing will bring, nor does he consider the consequences of his actions."

Avery looked trapped between the decision of wanting to help, and having to obey. It was either the jetlag, the new evidence of people close to him being threatened, or Mycroft's presence (probably a good deal of all three combined), but Sherlock was spurred into making the decision for her, not allowing her to take even one step away from him. Mycroft's beady black eyes narrowed on his moon shaped face, and he tapped the end of his umbrella against the floor, drawing the proverbial line in the sand. What his brother did not understand was Avery was his newest commodity to his Mind Palace, the room no longer remaining empty, and he did not plan on sharing her; with anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very important chapter! We finally see Sherlock constructing a room for Avery in his Mind Palace, Sebastian Moran's name has been revealed, and trouble is spelled for four of our characters who are his targets. Just because Garon is an OC, it doesn't make him a Red Shirt (his story is coming up soon, I promise!) Now with the addition of Moran being mentioned, you can bet I plan on making the jump to Moriarty later as his name has been mentioned much in the passing. And we saw a bit into Avery's family group (they may or may not be in this later) Now who's excited for the case to get started? I know I am.
> 
> Next chapter: Mycroft states his case, and there's the return to Baker Street where a guest is waiting to speak with Sherlock (any guesses on who it is?)


	20. Targets

Avery couldn't stand the look of disappointment on Mycroft's face. It reminded her too much of the first time they had met in the rehabilitation clinic, and it drove her to want to rectify it just as soon as possible. The outsiders might not ever understand it, but she valued her friendship with Mycroft for so many reasons that went beyond sentiment or compatibility; they really didn't have all that much in common as a matter of fact. She was being held back from approaching him though, by the strong opposing force of his brother. Both of the Holmes brothers were locked in a staring match, waiting to see who would give first.

"Sherlock, unhand her," Mycroft commanded sternly.

"No, you always destroy my things," Sherlock replied petulantly.

"Then it is a good thing Avery does not fall under that classification. She is still under my protection, now more than ever since you saw fit to remove her from the stable environment I had placed her in," Mycroft spat back before looking back her way. "We have much to speak of, and I'd rather not do it here in the presence of the rabble."

She sighed in exasperation. "Can we not start something now?" She wrenched her arm from Sherlock's grasp, tossing him a foul look while she could manage it. "And you need to stop that."

Sherlock looked thoroughly annoyed by that fact that nothing was happening his way. "But you can't leave yet. Your insight on Sebastian Moran is paramount because he shot you in the past."

Trying not to be distracted by the astonished look on Mycroft's face, Avery had to chew on her tongue to keep from speaking the wrong thing. "Well, you came to that conclusion abruptly."

"Elementary," He dismissed as if it was nothing, and for his calibre of thought, it probably was just that. "He is the one you've been hiding from all of this time, and I suspect you are still on his list when he failed to eliminate you the first time. So stems your believe of ' _luck_ '."

"He's the best marksman on the continent Sherlock; it has to be luck that I'm still alive after my encounter."

Sherlock shared a blank look with his brother, something being communicated between them that neither she nor John could understand. "Fate favour's the foolish who believe in such things as luck."

"Mycroft," Lestrade interrupted, looking as lost from the Holmes interlude as everyone else present in the room. "You have been made a target as well."

"Then I am sure that message is waiting for me back at the office with my assistant, though I can assure you Detective Inspector, I need no protection because of one man with a rifle. I'm sure my brother would be more grateful to have your men for assistance."

Sherlock made a disagreeable sound from his brother's jest, eyes narrowing as he fought with upholding silence. Lestrade seemed hesitant to continue, but he prevailed by turning to Avery. "Does this mean you are in danger now Ms. Nash?"

"If he is unaware of her presence, we have an advantage." Sherlock piped up.

"She was better off in New York," Mycroft sniped back as he pointed his umbrella at his brother, wielding it like some sort of medieval wizard with his staff. "Know this brother mine, Avery is not a piece of meat for your amusement, and she will not be surrendered up as bait to entice Mr. Moran either."

"I was hardly pondering that," Sherlock said, a little too defensively to be taken seriously.

"I would just as soon let you use Avery for your case as I would drink tea made by an American diplomat," Mycroft stated flatly. "Come along Ms. Nash, there are still items to be worked out in your situation."

Avery gazed back at both Sherlock and John with a helpless expression, knowing already that she would be leaving with the elder Holmes. "I will be in contact just as soon as I get a new number," She promised in a humbled tone.

John appeared agreeable by the decision, but Sherlock looked less than thrilled by the outcome, his focus on something else in the room as he scowled slightly. She tried to empathise with what he must have been feeling; going to such lengths to bring her back to London, only for her to be commandeered by his brother within hours of returning. He didn't exactly have the best relationship with his brother either and it must have felt like a loss on his part.

She followed beside Mycroft, leaving through the door as Donavan watched them with a curious expression on her mistrusting face. The rest of the Yard watched them as they made their way down the corridor as well, not that Avery could blame the bemused onlookers; Mycroft was a case all in himself, one not ever cracked by the likes of normalcy. She felt a little more daunted in his presence this time around, shaped by her time spent with his brother and blogger.

"Avery," Mycroft spoke suddenly, halting with his hand on the door that led out from the Yard. He was stoic, strong like an oak, but not even he could hide the present trouble that lingered in his eyes. "You're getting far too close with them."

"Is that a problem?" She asked tersely.

"It will be if certain trends are allowed to prosper. I don't think you need a reminder about what I am speaking of."

"I'm not a dog Mycroft," She retorted dryly.

"In the bigger picture, you are far more dangerous. My brother seems to be in the ridiculous habit of keeping a collection of friends, and it would be . . . harrowing if you were drawn up into it."

"For who?" He didn't answer her, and she nodded to signify she understood what he meant, but made no promise either by way of speaking. "Let's deal with our other problems first of all. You have more to tell me I assume?"

"We'll go to my office. Less prying ears there," He reasoned, leaning a little of his weight on the door until it opened, holding it for her in a bizarrely courteous gesture. Not that Mycroft wasn't chivalrous, but he was more likely the one to receive a held door than her. She followed him out to the black parked car, him holding his umbrella over them the entire way to stave off the falling flurries in London. It was January, marking another year on the calendar since she had seen her family, and she suddenly missed being home.

* * *

John was troubled by the silence that had persisted between him and Sherlock since they had left the Yard with nothing but a box full of written evidence for the case. Sure, the case with Sebastian Moran was disconcerting, but it wasn't the immediate thing on John's mind. His concern for the well-being of his friend came first, and if he was being completely frank, Sherlock was in a right foul mood since Mycroft had escorted Avery from the Yard. His tone had turned to something dark and hateful, unusually so, even towards Donavan, and that had left John to apologise before they had left to catch a cab back to Baker Street.

Considering he was a possible target for this new faceless adversary, John was feeling more alive and invigorated than he had in a long time, and perhaps that excursion to New York had been just what he needed to get back in the game.

"I won't accept any more cases until Sebastian Moran has been apprehended," Sherlock spoke suddenly, his voice steely as it sliced through the thin air of the cab.

"And how long do you expect that to take?" John pressed, his body shifting a little more to the side with anticipation to talk about their latest quandary.

"He's looking to be caught, already leaving the first marker for me to find, I expect it won't be long," Sherlock spoke with confidence despite the irritation he was obviously still harbouring. "This serves as a distraction, but to what purpose?"

"Wait, for us or himself?"

"Himself obviously. His actions betray his boredom with us. It's something more complicated than him being just another hired hand to Moriarty."

"Right, like what Avery said about him being the best marksman on the continent?" John said aloud as he pondered. "What was all that about her being shot by him?"

"There must be a reason for Moriarty wanting her gone, but what could she have done to have warranted such a lethal disposal?" Sherlock started mumbling to himself again, chanting like a sorcerer whose magic was well beyond John's comprehension.

"Sherlock she's the only one who can identify him."

That stopped all of his ramblings, a rare reaction to get from his odd flatmate. "Hence my cross mood at my brother for taking her when she has become so essential."

"So Mycroft gets the upper hand and you throw a fit?" He asked dryly. Sherlock thankfully had the humility to look embarrassed as he kept his gaze forward. "Your poor mother dealing with you two while growing up. She has my sympathy."

"And she would gladly accept it," He remarked offhandedly as he looked out the window of the cab, admiring the sight of Baker Street. "Oh good, home."

Everything settled back into routine as Sherlock left John in the cab with the fare, though John caught up to him at the door of Baker Street as he struggled with the box of evidence in one hand, searching for his key with the other.

"Good Lord, how long is this going to take?" John asked in exasperation as he watched Sherlock try and fail at independence.

"I almost—have it!" He cried with triumph at finding his key, only for the front door to open a second later. Garon's surprised face popped into view, and he looked down at the large box under Sherlock's arm before giving John an amused look.

"Need a hand with that?"

"If you insist," Sherlock said, dropping the box without grace into Garon's awaiting arms. "I trust the rest of our effects preceded us? Unless of course the cabbie was more of a dunderhead than usual."

"Oh no, it made it here. I did majority of the lifting. Mrs. Hudson's been having hip pain since the weather change," Garon explained, shifting the box awkwardly in his grasp. John had no doubt he was strong enough to lift something like that with his thick arms, but he was already bundled in winter gear when they had caught him at the door.

"Are we keeping you from something?" John asked politely.

"Well, I was just about to head out for a late supper, but I can help you first."

"A date?"

Garon flushed a bit at the accusation. "A first date. Haven't had one of those in a while I'll admit."

"If Molly wasn't engaged I would assume it was her."

Garon merely chuckled as he started up the steps after Sherlock. "Oh, I should warn you that you have a guest, waiting to talk in your flat."

Sherlock halting walking whilst up the stairs, sending Garon into his back while John careened into the wall with a groan. "A guest or a client?"

"Gosh, I hope he's a guest. Can't imagine he'd have much for you to investigate." Garon replied as he righted his posture.

Sherlock took off up the rest of the way without another word, as Garon moved aside to allow John to follow after him. Their door was already opened, and he found Sherlock standing in the centre of the room, scrutinising with his eyes at the short figure in his chair.

"Hello Sherlock Holmes!" August said with a brighter smile than John had seen on the boy's face at Christmas. His legs dangled while not quite reaching the floor, kicking back and forth like he was a fish in Sherlock's chair. Definitely not a coincidence. "I knew you would be returning to London today, specifically around this time after factoring in flight delays and a stop to the Scotland Yard. I've been following the case since it was written in the paper, and it was obvious you would choose to convene with the Detective Inspector first before coming back here."

John looked back at Garon as he settled the box down on the floor. "When did he get here?"

"About an hour ago. We played chess to pass the time, and it's with great shame that I admit to losing."

"Don't feel too bad," August replied to Garon as he stood up from the chair. It was hard to take his short stature so seriously, especially when he spoke well beyond his years. "I'm the best in my demographic. Your aggressive strategy needs improving though, and might I suggest a little subtlety?"

John snorted at Garon's falling expression. Their unfortunate neighbour had been subjected to a many number of odd things since he had arrived, and John had to take pity on him. He was then reminded of the case, and Garon being a target. "Garon, can I walk you down to a cab?"

"Alright. I don't suppose I'll do much good around here now anyway," Garon agreed, both of them for the moment leaving Sherlock alone with August. Hopefully John wouldn't return to too much of a disaster in the few minutes it would take to speak with Garon.

The stairs were easier to manage with just the two of them, and without the box of evidence getting in the way. John was still having a difficult time thinking about how to broach the subject of the case before he blurted out an apology.

"I'm sorry Garon!"

Garon stopped at the door of Baker Street with a questioning look before realisation crossed his features. "Oh the case. I almost forgot I'm a target now."

John felt worse for reminding him about it now. "Er—it seems like we've created nothing but bad luck for you."

"No, it's alright," He assured. "To be honest, I was in a bit of a rut until moving in here. Being a private investigator for Sherlock, and a target in a murder investigation is just the cherry on top."

They shared a chuckle. "I feel a bit better about it now, but do be careful whenever you go out."

"You as well; I'm not the only one he's looking for," Garon said as he tried to hide the concern in his eyes. "John, have you seen Dahlia, because I seem to have misplaced her."

That blasted picture Sherlock had taken from his flat the day he had move in! It was still sitting in John's room, tucked away in a book. "Erm—sorry again. Sherlock has a habit of . . . being Sherlock."

Garon laughed much to John's relief. "It's alright. I had a sneaking suspicion she had ended upstairs with you."

"Do you want it back?"

He shook his head for no. "It's alright; I have more than one of her keeping around."

It didn't go unnoticed by John that Garon sounded a little more despondent while talking about her. "Who is she?"

"She was my neighbour growing up," Garon paused and looked up to the celling to take a deep breath before continuing. "She was my best friend too."

"She was…does that mean?"

"Yes," Garon replied tightly, and John felt so sorry for ever bringing it up. "It's a bit of a long story, but I will say she's my inspiration for how I've moved forward with my life."

"I can't believe I brought it up, that was stupid of me to remind you of that."

"No, it's quite alright John. You couldn't have known that," Garon shrugged it off, though John suspected his date night was probably not going to turn out so swimmingly after being brought down by the reminders of his late friend. It was quite possibly more than that, or so John thought as he was reminded of the intimacy of the photograph of Dahlia; her nude back exposed to the waist with a tattoo of a jungle cat creeping up from her hip to her shoulder. "Everyone has a past; I just wish mine had gone differently."

"Has it been long?"  _Since she had passed away_. For John, it seemed better to not tack on that last part.

"Just a few years. I'm not sure why, but since moving here to Baker Street, it feels much more recent in my heart again. I'll confess, when I first read about Sherlock in the paper, I used to imagine I could maybe help him with cases to take my mind away from missing Dahlia. That's just a silly fantasy now though."

"I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of," said John. He knew of all the good his friend had brought in just the few years he had known him, and Sherlock must have looked like something of a miracle worker to the public by now. Still, John doubted if it would have tickled Sherlock's fancy to learn their neighbour was an avid fan who desired to share in his work. Best not upset him with word of that. "Well, I'd best let you get to that date now. Wouldn't want to keep a girl waiting."

Garon laughed, his eyes gleaming happily. "Hopefully this one isn't too demanding."

"No, but they usually are," said John, though all the same wished he had a date again.

He watched Garon's retreating footprints in the snow until he vanished inside of a cab and into the evening, leaving John in the quiet of Baker Street with the front door closing him in. Filled with feelings of despair, he was suddenly overcome with not wanting to be there in the flat. Call him sensitive, but it must have had something to do with being made a target by a blood thirsty sniper. With a shake of his head, he tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and headed back up to see what mischief Sherlock had wandered into with their young guest.

The only sounds John could hear as he approached their door was the odd clinking of wood being set down on a table. His brows furrowed, and he pushed on the door, finding Sherlock sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, August across from him on the couch, a chest board between them on the coffee table.

"Oh Lord," He breathed.

"Hello John," Sherlock greeted without moving his eyes away from the board. He hadn't even taken a moment to discard his coat or shoes, the snow melting onto the floorboards beneath him. "We were just discussing the potential similarities between Avery and Michelle Williams. Your insight would be appreciated."

"You don't know who Michelle Williams is, do you?" John deadpanned to Sherlock's silence.

"I think it's because of the hair," August piped up while he moved his rook.

"Hmm," John agreed, though Avery didn't have the fullness to her cheeks that the starlet did. "She's an actress Sherlock."

He made a queer noise as his face twisted together. "You're too young to be filling your head with such nonsense."

"Really?" John exclaimed.

"He meant me," said August. "And it was merely an observation that my father had brought up in her presence one day."

"How did she take it?" John said, chuckling a bit as he took a seat at his chair and powering on his laptop, suddenly struck with an inspiration to write.

"Not well," came August's curt retort.

Little snippets of conversation like that continued, though mostly between John and August because Sherlock was much too occupied in his thirst to win to add any commentary. In the meantime John was able to type down all of his thoughts from the past week, with mentions of Avery and New York in his words, leaving out Sebastian Moran for the moment if they were to gain any leeway where he was concerned. Thoughts of that just brought down his mood, so instead he wrote about his own surprise where Sherlock and children were brought together. He doubted if his friend realised yet, but he had much more courtesy towards the young boy than he had for the entirety of Scotland Yard. Readers would be thrilled by this development.

It was late into the night, and by three games later Sherlock was finally able to claim victory with a checkmate, overly pleased with himself as he did. There were still gaps in Sherlock's ability to read people as emotional beings, because when John caught the sly look on August's face and the little wink he sent his way, he understood that the boy had gracefully bowed down to let the Consulting Detective win a game. Probably for the reason of peace of mind; Sherlock had been whining somewhat unmannerly the past hour.

The trade-off was Sherlock letting August take his room for the night, neither of them wanting to send the boy back out on the street for home now at the late hour. He had sent a message to his father and had bid them both a polite goodnight, sweet signs of his youth more obvious in the twilight. John fled shortly after to his room upstairs, all while suspicious that his flatmate wouldn't be sleeping much now, not with that large box of evidence calling to him like a siren song. Day one of the Moran case had begun, and it was looking to be a lengthy process that would carry out well into the hereafter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh it's been a while. My only excuse was lack of inspiration while reworking a lot of the plot points I have for the future of this fic. Let me know your thoughts! We'll hear from Mycroft and Avery next chapter, because I love that friendship! And I have a newer direction I want to take this fic, but it shouldn't distract from what we've already established, so I hope you all enjoyed that!


	21. Hit Over The Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm back! Let me tell you guys, I missed this fandom, and it was never far from my mind. I've still been writing, just not fanfics. I joined Inkitt and have been posting original works on there (check them out under my same username), as well as busy with nursing school. But I watched the Abominable Bride and was so pleased to just be back into Sherlock for a moment, and so I penned this out for you lovely readers. Hope I still have some of you left really, so enjoy ;)

Avery sat across from Mycroft at his desk in the sleepy Diogenes club, the hour so late that the darkness had passed into dawn. The beginning of the sun was creeping up on them, and they had been up for longer than what was respectable. Given the circumstances of their situation, there hadn't been time to consider good manners. Anthea had indeed reiterated the message to Mycroft of him being a chosen target of Moran's, and the sniper had been considerate enough to leave a present behind as well.

"So much for having the advantage of surprise," Mycroft had said sourly.

The gift in question had been intended for Avery, which meant Moran knew her presence had returned to London. He was cheeky enough to send flowers and a card. She had been somewhat surprised they hadn't arrived as a funeral arrangement.

"How did he find out so quickly," Avery wondered aloud, turning the card over in her hand again while struggling to keep her eyes opened.

"It would seem Mr. Moran has better sight than either of us realised," said Mycroft, not looking up from the parchment he was addressing.

Unlike Avery, he showed no signs of having missed a whole night's sleep. She blamed her exhaustion on the jetlag piled up on top of the running around she had already done since her return. Between the Holmes brothers pulling her in opposite directions, she might not see a bed again for weeks.

"Even you?"

He put his pen down, and turned his eyes up to frown at her. "A sniper operates better from a distance. Why change his habits now?"

"Maybe he's bored," She said. "A change of pace can be rewarding."

"That is not the reward he is looking for," Mycroft deadpanned as he switched his complete attention onto her. "And are you going to take him up on his offer?"

Avery opened the card in her lap, and read over the words scrawled in bold ink. A man's writing not to be mistaken.

' _ **How about dinner?'**_

The intent of the message was likely to provoke her, and it succeeded. She still scowled as she set the card down. "Would it help?"

Mycroft didn't look amused, but he did gain a thoughtful expression. "Ms. Adler used to impose the same request upon Sherlock."

"That doesn't surprise me," Avery said, smiling at the thought of Irene. In a different past, they had developed a loose friendship from running in the same circle. Irene wasn't always reliable though, and her constant flirting was unappealing. "Another offer met with rejection no doubt."

"As far as I know," said Mycroft.

"Nothing slips past you when it comes to other's lives." If Mycroft didn't see it happen, then it didn't.

He didn't acknowledge that with an answer. Instead, he called for Anthea over the intercom, and she arrived within seconds at his office. "Yes sir?"

"Please see to it that Ms. Nash is taken home safely. Our business has concluded for the moment, and as of now, she could do with a few hours rest."

"Getting rid of me so soon?" Avery said with a teasing smile as she stood. Most wouldn't have been able to tolerate having seven hours spent in Mycroft's company, but for her it had been a typical welcoming home to put her mind at ease. "And here I thought you missed me while I was gone."

"The bags beneath your eyes are unsightly, and I didn't want you drooling on my desk," He replied with an impassive tone. "Get some sleep, Avery."

 _Not likely,_ she thought. "Lovely chat," She called while following Anthea to the door.

"Oh, and do give my regards to Sherlock and Doctor Watson." She paused at the door, turning back with a brow raised in question. Without looking up from his phone, he replied to her wondering look. "It's as you said, nothing slips past me. Superfluous, but flattering all the same."

"Goodbye, Mycroft. Try not to get shot while I'm away," She said, closing the door with a shake of her head. He knew she wouldn't immediately go back to her vacated flat. She had made a promise after all, and she felt she owed something to the younger Holmes.

"A new mobile and number for you," said Anthea, passing her the device. Mycroft had already programmed his number in, though it was slightly disheartening to see that he was her first and only contact.

"I was happier with my old model," Avery commented as she tucked the mobile away into her coat.

"To Baker Street then?"

"That's the plan."

Anthea led her out of the silent Diogenes club, and to the black car in park by the pavement. The first morning air in January was always biting, and it stole her breath just before she got settled into the soft leather backseat. Anthea got in after her, and told the driver to leave for Baker Street. It was probably a location he could drive to with his eyes closed with how often Mycroft would unexpectedly pop-in on his brother.

She sat quietly in the car, thankful that Anthea was the type of travelling companion who would rather keep busy on her phone than talk. Avery kept thinking about her night long conversation with Mycroft, as well as the tricky business with Moran. His was a face she had been hoping to avoid for the rest of her life, however short it would turn out for her, but now he was back. What terrible timing. She wasn't the only one at risk of being on the business end of his rifle, but she felt more concern for those targeted. What did this all mean?

She would try to help Sherlock and John as best she could, but she was restricted by what Mycroft had instructed her to do. He didn't want her getting too close to them, or divulging too much information of her true past. It was to keep her safe he said, but she suspected it was his manner of concern for Sherlock as well. She agreed with Mycroft's request—she wouldn't discuss her past—but she couldn't stop Sherlock from figuring it out for himself if he decided to. If that was to happen, would they think differently of her? She feared their hatred. John and Sherlock were a breed of people with the desire to do good, despite an awkward presentation, and Avery marveled at how rare that was.

"Baker Street, Miss," The driver called from the front.

She hadn't realised they had arrived, but the familiar street gave her a warm feeling as she spotted the Speedy's sign. Anthea didn't look up from her mobile, and she concluded she could leave with there being no reason to keep her. It sometimes felt like she was taken into custody whenever she had to rely on Mycroft for arrangements. The man never was one for simplicity.

"Happy New Year Anthea," said Avery as she departed from the vehicle.

"Don't tell John or Sherlock," She repeated robotically, not looking up or acknowledging the pleasant regard.

Avery shut the door with force, and shook off the chill that came over her. So much for the warm welcomes continuing. The automobile pulled away, and Avery strode up to the black door with the crooked knocker, tapping twice before waiting with her hands in her pockets. She hadn't managed a change from her aeroplane clothes yet, and they felt heavy under her coat. Most of her boxes would be waiting back at her flat, and it felt strange to be taking root back in London so suddenly. It was still winter all the same, because Mycroft never did pick a warm climate to hide her away in. That would have been too decent.

The front door was pulled back, and she was greeted by their landlady, still dressed in her nighty and peach dressing gown, bedhead having yet to be combed from her hair. She smiled somewhat hesitantly, bashful at being caught so early in the morning before the sun had even brightened. Avery felt terrible at her poor timing, only now realizing that it was just passed seven at dawn.

"Hello…Mrs. Hudson," She greeted, drawing out the name from her memory. They weren't well acquainted yet.

"Yes, good morning dear. Here with a case for Sherlock then?"

"Actually, taking an active part in one, and this was as soon as I could come."

Mrs. Hudson allowed her to step inside, leaving the cold blowing wind behind them. They stood together in the small foyer of Baker Street, cramped by how little room the entrance provided. The smile Mrs. Hudson sent her made Avery feel better, like less of an intruder than she probably was.

"Your timing couldn't be better. That man has been awful," Mrs. Hudson started to explain as she gestured for her to follow. "He's been hammering holes into my walls, and always with that violin. It started from three in the morning, and only just stopped before you arrived."

Avery hadn't heard a peep since going inside, but she shot a reluctant look to the stairs. Perhaps it wasn't too late to turn around and hail a cab. "I'll see what I can do. Hopefully I won't add to the problem."

"Oh heavens," Mrs. Hudson remarked with a whisper, looking terrified at the idea.

Avery gave the gentle woman a look full of sympathy as she started up the stairs. "It was lovey speaking with you Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other from now on."

"I look forward to it sweetie. They could do with some new visitors."

Their landlady returned to her flat, humming to herself while Avery continued ascending the rest of the steps. When Mrs. Hudson had spoken of old visitors, she wondered if she had been speaking of Mycroft. The soured look on her face was one often seen when the elder Holmes was the concern. Avery had worn it herself a time or two. It was the effect he had on people.

When she got to the top, she was surprised to see John already awake, and at the door. The bad night's sleep must have been contagious, because he looked exhausted standing there with his cup of tea. As she drew near, she realised it was coffee by the bold and hearty smell. A very bad night then. He smiled shortly though, staying put in the doorway.

"You're back early. I had expected Mycroft to keep you far away from here," He said, voice still grainy with sleep.

"He wanted me gone," said Avery, frowning as she thought that over. "So he must have had a reason for sending me here."

John snuck a glance over his shoulder into the flat before turning to her. "Are you sure you want to come in? Things have gotten…messy."

"I did make a promise."

John appeared grateful as he stepped aside. "You might want to leave your shoes out here."

Doing as he suggested, she kicked her boots off and placed them against the wall before following behind John. Messy had been too kind a word. Her eyes widened as she stepped into 221B, seeing that Mrs. Hudson had been correct about the wall hammering. There were nails and tacks sticking out from the walls everywhere, and at odd angles. It was like something out of a Doctor Seuss story. Papers from the case were strung up, the black ink making her dizzy as she tried to focus on one heading at a time. She followed the path John had carefully formed, because there were more notes scratched onto paper on the floor as well, likely of certain importance to the Consulting Detective.

"How long has he been at it?"

"All night," said John as he pointed to the lump covered in papers, sitting upright in Sherlock's chair. "I'm not sure if he fell asleep, or if he's just gone. I don't care either way, I mean look around."

"Didn't take you for a neat-freak, John," She commented teasingly.

"He's not," a voice interrupted from the doorway to the kitchen area. John's mouth was still opened from before he got to answer, and Avery was shocked to find August standing in Baker Street. "It's the military man in him. Hello Avery."

She slapped her hand to her forehead in disbelief. "August, does your father know you're here?"

"Yes, though I need to be getting back soon. He doesn't like me far away in the city for long."

"Yet he still lets you come alone," said Avery, her tone laced in disapproval. John shared her a look that he agreed.

"I got a full night's sleep though," August defended, his youthfulness returning to him all at once as he grew with guilt.

"Where?"

"Sherlock's room." August pointed back to the closed door.

"So he was out here all night?" Avery leapt around the scattered papers on the ground, towards the chair with the oblivious detective. He was halfway covered himself, a manila tag folder in his lap with papers discarded in copious piles. She wasn't certain which parts would be better to disturb, and so she reached over, first waving her hand in his face, and then snapping her fingers when he didn't respond. When he came back around to everything around him, it was with a calm silence, his eyes blinking slowly as he glanced at her as if seeing her for the first time. Avery took a step back and crossed her arms softly in front of her.

"Back already?" He questioned.

Her eyes narrowed. "It's been nearly eight hours since I left Scotland Yard."

"So it has," he acknowledged with a quick glance at the window before standing to stride past her for the kitchen.

"Am I going to be of any help right now, or is this a waste of both our time?"

"Your mind is fogged by exhaustion. Get some rest for now, and we'll wake you within the hour." He idly picked up a glass of a murky, thick liquid, smelling it for a moment before setting it back down as he thought better of whatever he had been thinking. "I don't want you forgetting. You're unreliable at best."

John made a strange sound of outrage in his throat, acting quick to cover. "He doesn't mean that Avery."

"Yes, I do," Sherlock cut in.

"It's alright John." She waved him off with small smile, unoffended by Sherlock's brusque command. "I must look awful, that's two Holmes' now that have told me to get some sleep."

"Mycroft?" John guessed.

"Of course, though I do like to think he was only acting in my best interest as a friend."

A glass fell into a shatter on the kitchen counter, with Sherlock standing vexed, scratching at his ear. "What?"

"What do you mean what?" asked Avery

"Mycroft…friend…I don't understand…those words," he spoke slowly, with a note of outrage threaded into his voice.

"Sherlock," She began with a hint of a chuckle. "I consider your brother my friend."

The edges of his narrow face fell flat, and his eyes faded blank. Avery thought that those might be the last words she got out of him, until his hand reached up and rubbed frantically at his already messy hair, "But why?"

"Well…why not?" Honestly, she couldn't think of a better answer either. Along the way she had grown a sentimental attachment to the elder Holmes, one he was likely aware of and abhorred. He had saved her life more than once after all.

Sherlock's mouth formed a thin line, but he nodded in acceptance. "I suppose we all could use a goldfish."

Avery narrowed her eyes, and took a step forward, "Should I be insulted?"

"You may be whichever you like," said Sherlock mockingly.

She threw her arms up in surrounded and let out moan of frustration. "Alright, I'm going to rest."

She advanced towards the hallway, heading towards the last door at the end of the passage. It wasn't until she reached for the brass knob that she heard a ruckus from the other room, like a body jumping up in fright, feet pounding on the floor.

"Wait!" John cried

But she had already entered the bedroom. While the periodic table on the wall was a dead giveaway to it being Sherlock's room, that wasn't the detail that immediately caught her attention. It was the dozens of pictures stuck to the wall. Pictures of her. There was a detailed timeline of a short section of her life, told in colour on the four walls. Her leaving the nightclub when she had still been employed there, in front of her flat, entering the Diogenes club, and every zebra crossing that she had passed while out in the city. All Avery could do was blink, while the thought settled in her mind that this was a collage of mistrust.

She briefly heard the door to the flat slam shut, and two pairs of footsteps tackling the stairs at the same time. One was particularly slower than the other, as if the first was dragging the second along. She quietly shut the door, and returned down the hallway to the sitting room. John was standing in the middle of the floor, looking as if he hadn't moved since trying to warn her. He could not hide the blush of guilt on his face. Avery ignored him for a moment to head to the window, catching sight of Sherlock and August once she drew back the curtain. The Consulting Detective was ushering the boy into a parked car, all while still trying to shrug into his long coat from the rush he had left in. She noticed before he disappeared into the black cab that he had tied his scarf unevenly.

John's warm presence closed in beside her, hesitant at first until he placed a hand down on her shoulder. She turned to face him, letting the curtain fall back with a lazy sweep into place. Her face was probably showing more annoyance than she felt. Frankly she was too tired. And a bit hurt.

"Well?" She probed John.

"Err—that just sort of happened," he said weakly. "I can understand if you want to leave."

"Oh no, I made a promise, and I'll stick to it." Careful to step around the scattered papers, she made her way towards the couch, still determined to get in that much needed rest. She let her body fall down onto the padded leather, curling her legs while she fluffed the Union Jack pillow to lay her head down on. "Wake me when he returns. He can't avoid me forever."

Before she closed her eyes, she heard John let out a small laugh as he made his way back to the table where his laptop laid open in waiting. She wondered if perhaps this would one day make the blog.

"No, I'm certain he can't," mumbled John. That was the last thing she heard, when she finally fell into sleep at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so some big points struck there, mainly the intro of Moran, Avery seeing those pictures, and some other things hinted between the lines. Please let me know what your favorite part was, and what you are looking forward to seeing!


	22. The Second Most Dangerous Man in London

It was a few hours later that Sherlock decided to come back to Baker Street. John had stayed at his laptop, vigorously typing while pausing occasionally to hang his neck out towards the window until finally spotting his unusual friend, stepping back out of a cab, August no longer with him. While John didn't have the foggiest idea of where Sherlock had gone, he suspected his return was on the presumption that Avery had calmed…or gone home. The latter wasn't true, as John looked to the couch to see her bundled up and sleeping under a thick wool quilt that he had draped over her. Her eyes had closed with her body still trained on the door, and she had remained still all except for the rise and fall of her breaths. John had forgotten her presence once or twice, until being reminded when he caught a glimpse of her bright hair in his surroundings.

The thud of the door closed below, and John counted Sherlock's steps as he made his way up to their flat. He slowed on the last two, obvious with some hesitance when spying that Avery's boots were still out in the hallway to dry. John smirked to himself, trying to imagine his friend's thought process just then, and while he was no Sherlock Holmes, he bet it was something along the lines of fear for their female guest. Other than his own mother, John doubted if Sherlock had ever tiptoed around another member of the fairer sex. Perhaps just Molly, when she grew annoyed with him.

The door slowly pushed opened, the light from the hallway causing Sherlock's long shadow to creep into the room before he poked his pale face in. His eyes did a quick loop around the area before centering on Avery's head, surfacing just above the quilt. The skin around his eyes crinkled, and his brows furrowed into a mistrusting frown as he took his first step inside.

"Hello," John called, paying no mind to the volume of his voice.

Sherlock made an agitated face, and gestured with his hand for John to lower his tune. He was being completely ridiculous. "Well?" He hissed.

"Well what?" said John in return.

"Is she still…" He waved his hand towards Avery when the words didn't come to him. "She left you unharmed?"

John snorted and said, "Of course. I didn't take part in all of that."

"I didn't take the photos, so on a technicality I am also innocent."

"Then who did?" Avery's small voice called, still hoarse with sleep.

Both John and Sherlock jolted, startled by her interjection when they had been certain she was still unconscious. She sat up slowly, legs still curled behind her as she stretched her arms up high, the quilt falling to her waist. The exhaustion behind her gaze had lessened from her rest, and John could see that she had also cooled towards Sherlock. All of that outrage had been replaced with something else; hesitance perhaps?

"That would be the work of Scotland Yard's new forensics photographer, Garon," Sherlock explained while hanging his coat and scarf up on the peg by the door.

"He rents the flat downstairs as well," John elaborated. "So you can see it wasn't difficult for Sherlock to manipulate him into the favour."

Sherlock looked scandalised, "I did nothing of the sort. He came to us as a fan because of John's blog, hardly a mind that needed manipulating. "

"Well whatever you did, I have half a mind to go down there and feed him his own shoes," Avery grumbled behind her hand as she scrubbed at her face.

Sherlock waved her off. "Oh don't bother with idle threats. He isn't here presently."

"That must have been a successful date," John said with a knowing smile.

"Or he's been shot by Moran," Sherlock quipped, plunking down in his chair.

"Very nice Sherlock," John said with well-meant annoyance. "Your concern is marvellous."

"Now I understand why he is a target." Avery stood up from the couch and walked to the kitchen to help herself to a glass of tap water. She returned to her spot in the sitting room without any changes from John or Sherlock, though John was now feeling more curious about what she was saying. "You should never have let him follow me around for those photos. Any questions you had I could have answered."

"But not truthfully, and I can determine as much from a photo as a simple conversation. Your presence wasn't necessary."

She looked to Sherlock, and John worried she had been offended. "But it is now?" Avery inquired.

"Unquestionably."

"Then I'll be around, so long as those pictures go." She leapt from the couch and made the short distance down the hallway, both John and Sherlock watching her while she opened the bedroom door. John thought he saw her flinch again as she stuck her head in. "Because this is creepy, it makes my skin crawl."

Sherlock laced his fingers together, putting them under his chin in thought. "Creepy?"

"Yes Sherlock," Avery confirmed as she came back into the sitting room. "Creepy. If I didn't know you, I'd mistake you for a stalker."

Sherlock scoffed at the notion. "Not to worry, I do not have the predisposition of anything of the sort. My intentions were strictly professional. Coveting of photographs might suggest something of a sexual nature, though is not the purpose here. I know the proportions of your body well enough that it would only take editing to see you without clothing."

"God Sherlock!" John cried. "Next time, I wouldn't lead with that."

"Why?" Sherlock's eyes flitted from John, then to Avery when he finally noticed the annoyance and flush of discomfort on her face. "Well, that matter is settled."

"Let's just move forward," Avery compromised. "You saw August home?"

"He saw himself home. I had other matters to see to, ideas that needed tending to for the case."

"Did you go to Lestrade?" asked John, hoping to catch up as quickly as possible. He didn't like being left out of any details, ones that he could comprehend anyway.

"Lestrade, no," said Sherlock. "I was with the homeless, going over details and having them watch over the lucky few targets chosen."

"So you expect Moran to keep to his word?" John asked, already feeling the hot potency of the fear and thrill of a good chase. Being with Sherlock presented that opportunity often.

"He's honored and structured." Sherlock crossed his legs and sat forward in his chair. The seams of his button-down pulled tight over his arms, and his trousers rode up to his ankles. "And well on his way to becoming the second most dangerous man in London."

"High praise," chuckled John.

"He's reached out again," Avery interrupted. John and Sherlock both looked at her expectantly to elaborate. "Moran did, back at Mycroft's office. There was a note with flowers."

"Let me see it," Sherlock commanded curtly.

"Sherlock, I seriously doubt Mycroft let her take it when she was leaving."

But John was quickly silenced as Avery pulled the small card from her pocket and surrender it to his flat mate.

"I have quick hands," She explained to his stunned face.

"Oh is that all?" John grumbled. With every frown, he felt the lines around his eyes deepen beyond his age. They were becoming permanent fixtures on his face, and he saw them every time he looked back into a mirror.

"A hand written note, oh it's like my own printed money," Sherlock exclaimed with glee. First he sniffed the paper, then he flipped it over back to front to look at the words. A look of familiarity passed over his face before he continued. "You can tell a lot about a man by his scripture. Did you know that the flourish and pressure in John's letters suggests he is quick to anger?"

"I am not!" He barked back and lunged upwards, only to immediately fluster for being caught up in the truth. Avery was looking at him with questioning amusement. He slowly sat back down. "Not quick to anger that is."

Sherlock smirked confidently, and his eyes flicked between Avery and the piece of paper. "What did my brother have to say of this?" He waved the note in the air like a flag.

"Whether or not I would take the offer," she replied, their vague conversation leaving John confused as to what was written. "I'm sure he meant that with the presumption that I would say no."

"But this is an opportunity. Moran won't be captured so easily, but we can reach out for contact." He tossed the note for John to read before continuing. "Accept the offer."

"What, make Avery go to dinner with him?" John blurted after finishing the short message, dread filling up in his gut like water in a flooded basement.

"Mycroft said for me not to be bait," said Avery, though it didn't sound like a mark of refusal to the idea.

"What dear brother mine doesn't know won't hurt him. This is an experiment, and I'm confident Moran won't show."

"So why take up the offer of dinner?" Avery wondered aloud the same thing John was thinking in his mind.

"Because this is how the game is played, and I have no other move presenting itself as of this time to take. An advance must be made, and we are holding the cards as of now."

Avery nodded slowly, her smile looking more like that of a nervous girl than of the woman who had run a tight security at a nightclub. "But how do I get in touch with him? I don't even have a mobile number to contact him with."

"But you must know a way, and I trust you'll find it. Information like that isn't easily deleted." He tapped at his temple with two fingers to emphasize.

"I'll try," she reasoned, standing from the couch while discarding the quilt. Her footsteps were careful, springing on the tips of her toes around the still scattered piles of papers on their flat floor. She grabbed her coat from the peg by the door, quietly fastening the buttons while looking down at her feet.

"Boots are in the hallway," John piped up. He wasn't sure if she had forgotten, or just distracted by what was to come next.

"Oh yes, right, thank you John." She turned to Sherlock, hesitant and with twitching fingers. "I'll be in touch."

"Your new number?" Sherlock prodded.

"Hmm?"

"I'm many things, but a mind reader isn't one of them." He approached Avery, who stood dumbfounded as he retrieved her mobile from her coat pocket, and then proceeded to enter his number into the device. Once he had returned her phone into its rightful place, he took a step back to frown at her. "Get more sleep. You're still loopy."

Avery let out a laugh, breathy and forced in its awkward presentation. Even Sherlock appeared boggled by it. "Right, I'll just be on my way," she said, tripping over herself as she waved over her shoulder at John.

"Yes well, say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson on your way. She desires company, and lacks female visitors," Sherlock instructed as he guided her to the door, waiting until she was halfway descended down the steps before closing the door. He turned back to John, a disturbed look on his face. "Was that an unusual parting?"

"Yes, you mean you couldn't tell?"

"Of course, but I can almost always detect such things. I needed to know if you could pick up strangeness from your own kind."

"My own kind?" John inquired.

"The dull," said Sherlock simply as he returned to sifting through papers. He paused a moment, and looked at John with sincerity. "Merely an epithet, not an insult."

"Why would that be insulting?" said John hotly.

Sherlock nodded with a smile. "Glad you understand, now do shut up."

As Sherlock vanished into his own mind, John couldn't help but think of Avery in concern. Her change in behavior had been noticed by him and his flatmate, but only John had dug a little deeper into the meaning. Avery was afraid of Moran, and she showed true apprehension into seeking him out on her own. The idea of using her as bait felt wrong and unappealing, and when Mycroft caught on—which he undoubtedly would—it would spell trouble for Sherlock. For the moment, John was undecided on which line of the matter he resided.

* * *

Sebastian Moran stood looking out at the river Thames, the sun to his back and the wind bashing at his weathered face. He sniffed once, and was reminded of dust and salt. The murky water below was more active than usual that day, and was precisely the reason why he had never used it for a dumping ground for bodies. He was of the firm idea that a corpse should remain for all to see. A message didn't get more clear than that.

Now in London, he was comforted by the other sites of home, a historic landmark in every direction from where he was. The entire city was a museum, and everyone else was just a spectator, more than half that didn't deserve to wander and reside among the notable streets. It was like he had never been gone, no one taking notice of him except for the few females batting their eyes that went on ignored by him. None of that was important. There was only the job.

Thanks to the forensics photographer Garon, he had a much better grasp on the on goings of those circling in Sherlock Holmes' life. In particular, at the centre of it all, was 'Avery'. Something as simple as a disguise and a name change wouldn't be enough to shield her from him. That never worked. He had been hunting her for enough years to not have lost sign of her completely, even when Mycroft Holmes tried to ship her away to other locations. He had been careful of course, to not reveal himself to her. She would spook as easy as a jack rabbit, given the chance. Moriarty wouldn't want that; he would see her dead, and that was where Sebastian was failing.

Sherlock Holmes was another matter entirely. Much more fun than the usual unfortunate souls who found themselves at the end of his scope. He understood Moriarty's obsession. In fact, the idea of obsession wasn't an unfamiliar concept to him. He had experienced a unique attachment to all of his kills, creating stories in his mind about who they were, just before he pulled the trigger. Some might have heard the sound of the fire, or even glimpsed the red light of his scope. He hoped that gave them the comfort of a peaceful end, but he was more likely the thing of nightmares.

Moran looked down at the photo in his hand again, the chill of anticipation filling his veins as he studied the face next in line to be pulled from existence. He had what he needed now, and his new target had served his purpose. The wind picked up again, and he started away from the bridge over the Thames with his mobile to his ear, one more call to make before his plan would be started.

Sherlock did not have long now, and he would soon be without a photographer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Moran has arrived, the plan is in motion, and targets are in trouble!


	23. Old & New

It was crowning upon evening by the time Avery returned to her old flat. It had taken longer than usual from Baker Street, because she had decided on taking the tube and then a cab to gather her thoughts. The effort had proved useless, because she was still wearisome with feelings, a few too many to all give names to.

She plowed through the melting slush in front of the building door, the comfort of her key still with her even after she was assured by Mycroft that she would not be returning to London. Rarely was he incorrect, but when he was, of course it was for important matters such as this. She figured she must have been the unfortunate one to be back so soon, but her promise to help Sherlock would keep her occupied.

Her landlord was away as she slunk in, closing and locking up the door tight behind her. It was like walking into an old photograph when looking at the familiar foyer. She could remember her way up the carpet covered stairs even in the dark from walking it so many times. Hoping to avoid any interaction, she crept passed her neighbour's door, and made it to her own sealed one. Before she reached to put her key in the lock, she noticed a glowing beneath the door to her flat. The foundation of the building was uneven, and so the bottom corner of her door lifted on the right side which left such a gap.

She pulled her shaking hand back towards herself, and it steadied. What to do now? Someone was already inside, making themselves quite at home, and she knew it wasn't a new tenant. Could it be Moran, had he finally come for her? She was under no illusions that he didn't know of her whereabouts, but she wasn't expecting such an intimate first confrontation. Taking slow breaths through her nose wasn't helping her faltering nerves.

Leaving her hesitance aside, she slowly turned her key in the lock and entered her flat. If this was to be her end, she would make it on her own terms. There was a warm heat blowing down the hallway to her front door, coming from inside the sitting room. Most of her personal things had yet to be unpacked from the boxes Mycroft had had delivered for her, but her old furnishings were still in place. A single table lamp was switched on, and the shadow from the figure on the couch was long and square on the floor because of the angle. Avery was sure she would have seen the silhouette of a broad man waiting, instead it was quite the opposite of her expectations. They still had fair hair though.

"Jesus, do you have any idea what I thought I was walking into?" Avery began as she lowered her guard, though not completely, and strolled to take a seat opposite her guest.

"Sebastian Moran?"

"Alright, so you're well informed." Avery studied her carefully, and while there were some subtle changes in her appearance, she could still recognise the face of an old friend. "What are you doing here?"

"I was going to surprise you with a welcome home pie, but you're out of sugar."

"I was out of country actually, across the pond," said Avery carefully. "I'm guessing you've been here all this time, and under a new name?"

"Mary Morstan now, and you, still going by Avery Nash?" _Mary_ guessed after reintroducing herself.

"Until I'm told otherwise." She eased back into the chair, collecting the deep breath that had been scared from her before entering the flat. "It's probably for the best anyway. Name changes muddle everything. I still remember having to adjust answering to Avery, because sometimes I would stay unresponsive."

"And now it's as if you've forgotten who you once were."

She let out a dry laugh. "Believe me, it would be better if I could."

"Would it keep Sherlock Holmes at bay?" Mary teased with a sideways smile.

"How do you know about that?" Avery accused back, sitting straighter while her eyes narrowed. She was right not to have let her guard down entirely.

"I hear whispers…and I might have also taken an avid interest in Doctor Watson's blog."

"John? Well he'd be pleased to hear it, but I don't know what that has to do with me."

"You were mentioned in his latest entry. He admires you, I can tell. Though I'd say he romanticizes most of the details of his adventures. He and that Consulting Detective share quite the love story." Mary batted her eyes, and sighed with a smile. Avery could see the honest enjoyment in her gaze, and she looked to be more than just a fan of John's and Sherlock's stories. She was enamoured by them.

"They've heard it all before, the accusations, sharing a flat, dining out, it's all taken in stride."

"Of course. I doubt it myself, especially after the story of 'The Woman'. Your friend Irene, yes?"

Avery moaned in exhaustion, the fatigue she often felt when Irene was mentioned. "I don't want to talk about it, so if you came all the way here for that, you can clear out now."

"Don't worry, I'd say history has caught up with you enough recently without my adding to it," said Mary gently.

"Are you looking for a flat share then?" Avery gestured around her disarrayed flat with the unpacked boxes. "Because I don't have the space, and I still need to unpack."

"Oh no, I have it all worked out for myself. I'm working as a nurse through some clinics at the moment, and they pay me well enough."

"No odd contracts on the side?" Avery pressed.

"I want to stay hidden too. Mary Morstan is an exemplary citizen, not a murderer, and she lives more on the east end right now."

"And on the good side of life, that must be nice. Perhaps I'll break in next time and give you a scare of who you're running from."

"My relationship with my enemies aren't as complicated as yours," Mary reminded, and Avery envied her that. No one would trade her for the shambled pieces of her life, and she'd have to find a solution to it all on her own. "Besides, your assumptions are wrong. I didn't break in. Did you see any sign of a forced entry?"

As she thought back to her door, she had not spotted any scratches or chips on the wood and handle that Mary could have left behind. The window was perhaps a second option, but if Mary said she did not force her entrance, Avery believed her. "How did you do it?"

"Chatted up your neighbours. Noisy people, and they don't like you much. The news of your return seemed to have upset them. I'd guess it has to do with that bullet hole in your wall." Mary pointed behind Avery at the wall, the damaged spot inches to her left. It was the one that Sherlock had caused months back.

"Do neighbours ever like each other anymore? We're as much at war with them as we are with other nations."

"That's probably true, but I tend to steer clear of the news, and politics. Didn't take you for one to hold any interest in that."

"It's happened recently," Avery said slowly as she thought about Mycroft.

"Well it's a good change," said Mary, uncrossing her legs and sitting forward on the settee. "Despite what's all been happening, you seem happy."

"Having a purpose has helped." Maybe she was tired of running too, just a little bit

"I really came here to offer my help, Avery, if you should ever need it. It's been a while, but I know Sebastian Moran too, and I want to help see things done if I can."

"I appreciate it, though I have a feeling this is something I will have to see done on my own."

"Are your new friends going to let that happen?"

Avery didn't answer, mostly because she didn't know how to. She had her doubts that Sherlock and John would just let her go out on her own to finish Moran. It might not have been something possible for her to do either. Her gut twisted up into knots whenever she thought about it.

"I'm helping them, so I suppose they have as much to benefit as I do."

"If Moran can be stopped, as you and everyone else hopes him to, what then? Will you go to your family, because it's going to be difficult to explain you've been alive after all this time?"

"I know." She grew breathless at the thought. Facing her parents and siblings again, after they'd moved on for years without her. Was it a fold that would welcome her back in, if she had even fit properly to begin with? "I don't know what's going to happen."

"All I ask, is that you keep me informed," said Mary, rising from the couch to leave.

Avery stood and followed after her to the door, in no real urgent hurry to see her friend gone so soon. She wondered if there could have been a way to make their first meeting go better. While it hadn't been terse, she got a hunch that the now Mary was wanting more from her, but she was too preoccupied to know what that was. It wasn't until Mary surprised her by embracing her that she felt the reception she desired. She was the first thing from Avery's past that had come back to her willingly, and without threat.

Mary spoke into her ear, quiet and gentle, "Be safe, and please keep in touch. I left my number for you on the table. Day or night I'll answer."

"Still a light sleeper than?" Avery inquired as they separated.

"I haven't been able to sleep passed six in years."

They shared some last parting words before Avery saw her go. She stood without purpose in the doorjamb awhile after, faced with the task of going back into her flat to unpack as her mind still hummed with thoughts of the case. Her steps were slow, and she finally managed to shrug her coat off onto the couch, meanwhile picking up the note with Mary's number scrawled on it.

She was now up to four numbers on her mobile, but she needed to make it five. The job of finding out a way to contact Moran weighted heavily on her. She wanted to be able to help John and Sherlock, but she couldn't fathom how to face the sniper. He was definitely her boggart.

A distraction was what she needed, and so she sat down on the floor, pulling over the nearest box to begin unpacking. It seemed her life could be summed up from what was inside the boxes. Each item she removed was just another telling piece of the puzzle, yet she wondered if Sherlock saw more. This was Avery's life she was looking at, but she still had the memories from before Mycroft had shrouded her in the ruse of a false name. No one could take them away from her.

One in particular came to mind, a memory that struck at her heart because of its importance. She hadn't known it then, but its impact would change her life forever; the day she first met Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

_She was just seated on the couch in the sitting room, minding her own business behind a book. Perhaps maybe to outsiders that was what it looked like, but none of these people were looking at her for anything. It was very much keep your nose out of others troubles here, and that suited her just fine. She was a bit preoccupied with the man lingering and pacing around the front lobby. Through her peripheral vision she had watched him strutting about in his pressed suit, long black coat, and an umbrella held in his hand._

_He wasn't here to check himself in. She wasn't judging him because of his appearance though. Lord knows there were enough entrepreneurs here who carried their own bad habits. This stranger's face wasn't haggard, sallow, or flushed from withdrawal, instead he had his own quiet pain in his eyes. He was curious to her, and looking around the sitting room, no one else seemed to be as enchanted by his presence as she was. The day was long and boring, and she wasn't expecting any visitors. She left the book on the seat beside her, and stood to make her way over, careful to not be caught by one of the attendants._

_"You look like you took a wrong turn," She said, making her presence known._

_The stranger's cool gaze landed on her, and for a moment it made her hesitate and question her thinking in approaching him. He didn't have the vibe of being friendly to anyone. There was a bit more weight carried around his middle, from a comfortable lifestyle probably, and his light auburn hair was in the transition of receding. Still, there was something about him inherently powerful, and he was likely more than just a pencil pusher._

_"Oh no, just having a look around," he replied curtly._

_"There's pamphlets at the desk." She pointed, but his eyes never left her face. It was a pinning stare, one that had her pulling nervously on her long braid over her shoulder._

_"I'm not sure this is the place I'm looking for to settle. The staff is ghastly."_

_She chuckled then, realizing he meant her. "I'm not an employee here, I'm a patient."_

_"And they let you approach visitors to the facility?" He leaned against his umbrella like a crutch, but his stance was intimidating all the same._

_"Well, they aren't looking for me right now. Besides, it's rehabilitation, not prison."_

_"Is that your recommendation then, that it is appropriate for a user?"_

_"I suppose," she replied, feeling curious. "A user and not an addict then?"_

_He smiled thinly. "Just words, ones not to hold in high regard."_

_"Oh, so from another user then." She held up her hands when he tossed her a foul look, indicating her innocence. "Just a guess, I won't ask who from."_

_"Forgive me for speaking my mind, but your time seems wasted here. While I'm sure you are of no greater than average intelligence, you have a cleverness about you, and tenacity," He said, his grasping gaze slipping the more he studied her._

_"That's quite the backhanded compliment, sir. Rest assured my average intelligence won't be here much longer. I'm almost done my treatment."_

_"With some success I should think."_

_"Maybe," she said cryptically, and the comfort that had grown from their banter vanished. Her veins that felt like stretched rubber around her body were longing for a poke. "But you don't know me, how poisoned I am."_

_"No, I think I know you exactly, and you are not beyond saving." He said so as if he had to convince himself of the idea, and she wondered if it was really her he was speaking about._

_She would have liked to have spoken longer with the strange umbrella man, but one of the attendants had noticed her absence, and was making his way over to take her back. "Well, I wish you luck with your friend, or whoever you are looking to help."_

_"Luck won't be enough," he muttered with a shake of his head. "But you have been enlightening, if nothing else should come of this afternoon."_

_She started taking a few steps back, giving a small wave and a smile. "Goodbye…I just realised I never got your name."_

_"It's Holmes," he called, turning himself to the door, though not before stopping at the desk to grab a pamphlet._

_His shadowy figure disappeared from the facility, and once she returned to her spot on the couch after a stern lecture from the attendant, she pondered why he had not given her a first name. She tried to be creative and think up one herself, but nothing came to mind that could match the stately impression he had left. Perhaps it was for the best. She doubted if she would see him again anyway._

* * *

But Avery had seem him again. He had visited the following day, and she wondered now why that had been the day Moran had not come in to check up on her. Mycroft would be able to identify him by face if he had, and not be left with false records that Moriarty had no doubt switched in place in every database across the country. It seemed luck had been against them.

A lot had changed across the years, but in many ways she still felt she was the same poisoned girl in rehab, the one too far gone that others were still trying to reel back in. She would probably have to cut her own tether and save them all the trouble.

She dropped whatever she had been holding from her box of personal belongings, and dragged herself up to her settee with a sigh. Unpacking could wait until later, when she wasn't neck deep in thoughts. For so long she had been running away from her past, one that was now catching up to her with bitter resentment, and she would have to face it as best she could. But for now she wanted to shut her eyes and sleep, and that's exactly what she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it was important to go back to the roots of Avery being an addict (user) because she is still a damaged person in healing, and it is also an important thread to Mycroft and Moran for her. Also, Mary has been shown now, and I was thrilled at how easily she fell into the story, so here's to hoping every update can be that easy! Comment below, let me know your thoughts and opinions :)


	24. Adieu Voisin

It was flu season, and it was rapidly spreading around London. Cough syrup and soothing cough sweets were flying off the shelves in handfuls. Sick days were being used up by everyone, from teachers, and cabbies, to detectives. It seemed no one was immune to the sniffling, high fever epidemic, and that large list included Sherlock Holmes.

He was absolutely miserable. The lemon drops that Mrs. Hudson had picked up for him at Tesco did nothing for the burning in his sensitive throat tissue, and the cough syrup John had forced in his mouth only made him woozy. That wouldn't do. An addled-brained Consulting Detective's use was near few, it made him ineffective in furthering the case against Moran. Not that he was getting much work done, what with John, Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade preventing him from going out. He was cooped up in Baker Street with too few tissues, and too much time.

"Hnnnggg," He groaned beneath the layers of his duvet that he had dragged from his bedroom into the sitting room.

"Oh Sherlock, stop making such a fuss," John sniped as he readied himself at the door with his coat and gloves. "It's your own fault for getting sick. You compromise your immunity when you don't eat."

"I never eat on a case," he immediately retorted.

"Yes well, you're going to have to eat now to keep your strength, otherwise you'll end up hospitalized with an IV in your arm and a feeding tube down your throat." There was a knock at the door downstairs that Mrs. Hudson could be heard answering. "Now I have to go in for work. Things are mad at the surgery, and they need me to fill in to help with all of these influenza cases."

"You're leaving?" He poked his head up from the duvet, feeling a flash of hope that he might be able to get some work completed.

"Wipe that look off your face, I'm not leaving you unattended. Seeing as I don't trust you alone, and Mrs. Hudson will be otherwise occupied today, I got you the next best thing."

The guest downstairs, who for a moment had been forgotten, was at the door to their flat. John reached for the knob and let them in before they had a chance to knock. Behind it was Avery's stunned face, her cheeks red and her hair windswept.

"Hello John."

"Avery," he greeted amicably.

"John," Sherlock whined upon seeing her. "The next best thing would have been Molly…or Lestrade."

"Only because you can walk all over them," John tutted before turning to Avery. "I am so sorry."

"No, it's fine. Normally I would be offended, but he's right, my bed side manner is rubbish." She tossed a look at Sherlock, and he felt himself shrink back with annoyance.

"That's exactly why I rang. If you wouldn't have answered, Mycroft was my next choice."

Sherlock let out a noise of indignation. Here he was, the one who was ill, and they were discussing him like nothing more than a naughty child who wouldn't touch his greens.

"Any special instructions?" asked Avery as she shrugged out of her coat. The soft pink jumper she wore beneath was unsightly, prompting Sherlock to turn away on the couch and hide inside of his self-made cocoon.

"Don't baby him, don't let him leave the flat, and don't let him go without eating. I don't care if he refunds it onto the floor, he needs to ingest something other than tea and lemon drops. I'll be home around eight, so make yourself comfortable to what we have. Mrs. Hudson will be by later this evening with more medicine and tissues."

"Yes, I see he's already been through a fair few of those," Avery noted, looking about the floor that was covered in balled up tissues like a parade float. The rubbish bin in the kitchen was already overflowing with the rest of the used tissues that he had made a game out of dunking them into that morning. The one thing they had discovered was Sherlock was a great shot with his overhand toss.

"Text me if anything more dramatic than usual happens." John took one last worried look at his flatmate before disappearing out the door for work.

Sherlock listened to John's footsteps on the stairs, the pause he made on the ground floor as he talked with Mrs. Hudson in muffled voices, and finally the departure they made together from Baker Street. They were going to split the cab fare then. It was all so clear to him when his eyes were shut, his ears doing the seeing and listening for him. For instance, he could hear Avery's sigh of frustration at him, could see her gaze on his back as she approached.

"Sherlock," she said with some degree of exhaustion. "Do you want to talk about the case?"

He jackknifed into a seated position, still wrapped in layers and facing the wall. "I suppose that would be agreeable," He said casually, clearing his throat as he swung himself around on the couch cushion.

"Thought you'd like that. Will you agree to eat something in return?"

He scowled at her baiting him, but he was eager to get something accomplished, and if he had to sacrifice swallowing something down his gullet, then so be it. "Broth and nothing else."

"Alright, deal," said Avery, taking a seat in John's chair. "I haven't been able to find a way to get into contact with Moran, but I was thinking the Punjab."

"Covent Garden, on Neal Street," Sherlock confirmed with a sniff. "Sticking to the plans of a dinner date then."

"Yes. We know he has eyes on Baker Street, so it's safe to assume he'll get the message somehow, even if I show up alone."

She shifted with sluggish movements. Exhaustion, not sleeping enough. Noticeable from the bags and discoloration under her eyes. Thoughts of this case were keeping awake as well, but he imagined for different reasons than his own. "Are you afraid? John said you were."

"Well, he did shoot me in the past," said Avery. "Makes sense I would be."

A shot which she had lived from, and he had never known that to bother her before. This fear was something else, something she had locked away. "There's a chance of that happening again, and to others. Do try to keep from becoming frantic, can't have you becoming overly emotional at a critical moment."

"I'll keep that in mind," She said blankly. "And what will you and John be doing?"

"Playing the game. John is one of Moran's marks as well, as is brother dearest, though I surmise for different reasons they have been targeted. And of course the neighbour photographer, because of knowing too much about you."

"Whose fault is that," Said Avery, giving him a pointed look. Apparently she was still put-off by that incident. "Anyway, it seems like he's never home, and there's something awfully smelling coming from his flat."

Sherlock frowned. "Smell, what smell?"

"Oh right, you're sick. It would have been amazing of you not to notice. As soon as Mrs. Hudson invited me, I was overcome by it. She's thinking of going in there herself to clean whatever it is. It's something rotting, old food maybe?"

Blast that damned illness for impairing one of his senses! He sprang up from the couch without so much as a word, discarding the quilt he had been wrapped up in, and headed out the door of the flat. He heard Avery's soft steps in her socks as she followed.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" She called.

"I have a thought."

"You can't leave Baker Street, John will have my head."

"Your head will remain attached, I'm not leaving the flat," He said, stopping at the door of 221C. Even through his clogged sinuses, the moment he stepped up and pressed his nose to the grain of the door he could smell through it. Rotten.

"Jesus," Avery sniffed, coming up beside him with a hand held up to her face. "You're going in there, aren't you?"

"There's no one at home." With some patience he would have picked the lock, but he was struck by urgency from what Avery had told him. He brace his arms up against either side of the doorjamb and gave a solid thrust of his leg that forced the old door to give way. Mrs. Hudson could add it to the next month's rent. With a crash and boom they were inside the basement flat.

"Subtle," Said Avery at his side.

They were barely inside when the odour hit them full force. Avery's eyes watered, and Sherlock followed the recognizable smell to the source, going around the bend of the hallway to the sitting room. It wasn't difficult, but it was as he suspected. "As I thought," He said, crouching down to the floor beside the couch wedged in beside the coffee table.

"My God," Avery whispered. "Is that Garon?"

"It was."

He was dead, and for some time now. A close range bullet had gone through the back of his blond head, the exit wound blowing through his face, rendering him unrecognizable. All that was left was a droopy bottom lip and bits of flesh of cheek and forehead on the left side. The blood had dried and hardened into the rug beneath him, along with some of the splatter on the collar of his white t-shirt.

"When could this have happened?" Avery took a step closer, but remained standing and away from the body.

There had been no forced entry to the flat up until they had just broken into it. By the smell alone, one could surmise it had been a few days, and he could recall earlier in the week of hearing the heavy footsteps of Garon returning to his flat in the night, and leaving again awhile later. There was no vantage point that would allow the sight needed into the basement flat, not one that a sniper could use. Close range shot. Moran had visited Baker Street.

"Unpleasant," Sherlock mumbled to himself. He stuck his hand out behind him, towards Avery without ever turning away from the body. "Your phone."

A moment's hesitance before she passed it to him. She remained in place a few paces back, not having to be told to refrain from contaminating the scene. He immediately sent out a text to Lestrade to come at once.

"Sherlock," said Avery, her voice now coming from the far right of the room.

"Hmm," He said without looking.

"This here, it's got your name on it."

Attention piqued, he turned his head and rose to approach the shelf that Avery was standing beside. She pointed to the large brown envelope lying flat before the stacked photo albums on the shelves. He was glad she hadn't instinctually opened it upon discovery, a habit that plagued many of the officers at Scotland Yard. Grabby and thoughtless, especially when a specific object was meant for an intended recipient. He first viewed it as it lied, neglected and forgotten, but not so long that dust had yet a chance to settle in a thick layer around it. In bold black marker on the front of the envelope it was addressed _'To Sherlock, from Garon'._ He picked it up, perhaps the last words of the dead man on the floor not three feet away, turning the sealed paper over in his hands and read.

_**I have a case for you.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, comments on the show and the chapter! I know I had my favorite moments, and I like hearing everyone else's too :)


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